/  /. 


LI  B  R.AR.Y 

OF  THE 

UNIVLRSITY 

or    ILLl  NOI5 

823 


HERMAN, 


YOUNG  KNIGHTHOOD 


By   E.  FOXTON 


VOL.  I. 


BOSTON: 

LEE      AND      SHEPABD, 

1866. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

LEE    AND    SHEPARD, 

In  the  Clerk's  Oflace  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


^>3 


u.  \ 


r 

e 


C? 


TO    THE     M0THEE8 


PUTNAM,    SHAW,   AKD   THE   LOWELLS. 


THESE     VOLUMES     AEE     DEDICATED, 


IN     EEVEEENT     SYMPATHY. 


vo 


^ 


PREFACE. 

^  — — 

H 

This  story  was  written  in  the  years  eighteen  hundred 
"^     and  fifty-seven  and  fifty-eight. 

^  It  is  now  presented  with  little  alteration  to  the  reader, 

less  as  a  picture  of  the  state  of  things  to-day  existing  among 


1^  us,  than  of  a  state  of  things  from  which  the  war  of  to-day  is 
delivering  us, — of  a  state  of  things  into  which  we  may  be 
thrust  back  to-morrow,  if  we  listen  to  those  who  would 
fain  prattle  to  us  of  the  "  constitutional  rights"  to  tyranny 
of  armed,  or  vanquished,  traitors. 

Boston,  1865.  E.  F. 


0 

f 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2009  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign 


http://www.archive.org/details/hermanoryoungkni01foxt 


Contents  of  Volume  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAOB 

TOTINa  AMERICA, 9 

CHAPTER  n. 
TEE  KNIGHTS  LADY, 25 

CHAPTER  m. 
TKE  ENIGHTS  TBTST, 42 

CHAPTER  IV. 
TEE  FAMILY  PORTRAIT-GALLERY, 61 

CHAPTER  V. 
THE  KNIGHTS  VOW, 77 

CHAPTER  YL 

THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HEARTH, 96 

CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  BACKWOODSMAN, 127 

CHAPTER  Yin. 
THE  LAND  OF  SUNSET, 161 

CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  KNIGHT  FASTS,.. 201 

CHAPTER  X 
THE  LADTS  PRIVILEGE, 219 

5 


VI  CONTENTS    OF    VOLUME    I. 

CHAPTER  XI.                                     PAOB. 
THE  ABMOBT, 227 

CHAPTER  Xn. 

THE  KNIGHT  IN  THE  CAMP, 266 

CHAPTER  Xm. 
THE  8ISTEBS  OF  CHARITY, 295 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  LADY'S  8HBIFT,     338 

CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  LADY'S  8HBIFT,  (ConcluOea,) 361 


HEEMAN; 


OB, 

YOUNG     KNIQHTHOOD. 


CHAPTER   I. 

YOUNG   AMERICA. 

"  Odi profanum  vulgus  et  arceo." 

-Horace. 
**  Of  all  things  under  heaven  that  make  me  merry, 
It  makes  me  merriest  to  see  a  boy 

That  wants  to  be  a  man." 

Philip  Yan  Aetevelde. 

Mrs.  Mydass  gave  a  ball.  Many  of  her  newer 
acquaintance  who  were  bidden  went  to  it ;  and  some 
of  her  older  acquaintance,  who  were  not,  improved  the 
opportunity  which  their  enforced  seclusion  afforded,  to 
meditate  and  comment  upon  the  wholesome  text, 
"  Pride  goeth  before  a  fall,"  evincing  thereby  in  them- 
selves an  edifying  amount  of  humility  and  charity. 

Mrs.  Mydass,  in  the  mean  while,  stood  under  a 
splendid  chandelier,  in  a  very  pretty  little  blue-and- 
silver  boudoir, — a  handsome,  haughty  she-millionaire, 
and  she  looked  it,  in  a  smuggled  crimson  velvet,  trim 
med  with  point  lace,  fresh  from  Madame  I'Hoste's  at 
Paris,  and  in  an  attitude  which  would  have  been  as 
fine  as  her  dress,  if  her  nose  had  not  been  unfortunately 
1*  9 


10  _       HERMAN. 

posed  jnst  an  eighth  of  an  inch  above  its  proper  alti- 
tude, which  gave  the  expression  of  an  unsuccessful 
effort  to  smell  of  the  roses  in  what  Mr.  Dickens  says 
"  a  lady  calls  her  back  hair," — an  effort  to  be  con- 
demned, not  merely  as  unsuccessful,  but  as  altogether 
fatuitous ;  for  the  roses  were  not  like  those  which  her 
first-love  used  to  put  into  it  in  the  little  back  garden, 
but  of  muslin,  and  probably  smelt  accordingly. 

A  cordial  pleasure  tempered  the  terrors  of  her 
majesty  as  she  welcomed  her  friends,  i.  ^.,  those  whom 
she  wished  to  have  for  her  friends,  leaders  of  the  ton^ 
reigning  helles  and  heaux^  prominent  politicians  of  the 
dominant  party,  a  distinguished  author  or  artist  or 
two,  aud  last  not  least,  (for  she  had  been  by  nature  a 
warm-hearted  creature,  though  now  a  good  deal  spoiled 
and  spoiling,)  two  or  three  of  her  early  play-fellows, 
who  were  "  respectable "  enough  to  keep  still  within 
her  sphere,  whom  she  did  love,  and  who  did  love  her. 
Most  of  these  favored  ones  rewarded  her  by  calling  her 
"  charming  "  and  "  fascinating,"  (which  she  certainly 
was  when  she  chose  to  be,)  or,  if  their  tongues  were 
tainted  with  snobbishness,  "  high-bred,"  (which  she 
certainly  w^as  not,  unless  it  be  high-bred  to  be  bred  up 
by  one's  grandmamma  in  the  little  parlor-kitchen  behind 
what  used  to  be  her  milliner's  shop  in  Newburyport, 
before  she  and  her  only  son,  between  them,  made  the 
money  which  made  Mrs.  Mydass.)  Towards  all  the 
rest  of  her  visiters,  however,  summoned  to  visit  her,  as 
they  had  been,  by  notes  partly  at  least  in  her  own 
handwriting, — tiotes  which,  if  she  had  had  anything  of 
that  spirit  of  generosity  and  honor  for  which  only,  if  at 
all,  is  aristocracy  to  be  held  in  high  esteem,  should 
have  served  as  their  guaranty  against  the  slightest  an- 
noyance from  which  she  could  protect  them  while 
under  her  roof, — towards  all  these,  I  am  sorry  to  say 


YOUNG    AMERICA.  11 

tliat  slie  conducted  herself  as  if  she  had  convened 
them  to  envY  rather  than  to  share  her  prosj^eri- 
ty,  and  as  if  she  could  find  no  better  way  to 
promote  the  cheerfulness  of  the  occasion  than  ad- 
ministering a  moral  cold  shower-bath  to  them  on  her 
very  threshold.  Equally  sorry  I  am  to  say,  that  they 
revenged  themselves  after  it  by  getting  together  in 
corners,  and  repeating,  with  gloomy  joy,  a  certain  dark 
tradition,  said  to  be  confirmed  still  by  the  memories  of 
many  juniors  of  "  the  oldest  inhabitant,"  to  the  effect 
that  her  maternal  grandfather  had  often  been  seen 
riding  through  the  streets  of  the  city  in  his  cart,  laden 
with  the  disjecta  mewibi^a  of  the  leafy  lords  of  the  for- 
est, felled  by  his  red  right  hand.  This  was  true  ;  and 
a  very  sturdy,  jolly  old  fellow  he  was  ;  and  if  his  grand- 
daughter's respected  husband,  with  all  his  "  respecta- 
bility," was  half  as  honest, — I  certainly  don't  mean  to 
deny  that  he  was,  because  I  know  nothing  to  the  con- 
trary, except  a  story  that  he  failed  while  he  was  in  busi- 
ness in  iS^ew  Orleans,  and  has  never  paid  his  creditors, 
— why,  then,  I  have  only  to  say  that  he  was  one  of  the 
noblest  works  of  God,  whether  he  looked  like  it  or  not ; 
one  cannot  always  judge  by  appearances,  l^feeover,  if 
the  conjugal  Mydass  had  been  half  as  good-humored  as 
the  grand-paternal  Frost,  he  would  have  been  also  one 
of  most  good-humored  works  of  God ;  but  alas  1 
he  was  not,  and  Mrs.  Mydass  herself  could  have 
borne  witness  to  the  fact,  if  it  had  not  been  con- 
trary to  all  laws  of  courts  or  of  courtesy,  that  a  wife 
should  be  required  to  testify  against  her  husband. 

Calling  imagination  to  the  aid  of  history,  after  a  cus- 
tom established,  if  not  authorized,  by  the  example  of 
most  chroniclers  of  men  and  things,  past  and  pres- 
ent, some  of  these  outraged,  not  to  say  outrageous, 
IxsVaj  ^(jPiVrjoi  even  went  so  far   as   to   assert  that  one 


12  HERMAN. 

of  their  hostess's  grandmothers  had  been  a  nursery- 
maid. This  was  false  ;  she  was  only  a  house- 
keeper; but,  false  or  true,  what  should  all  of  these 
blood-curdling  myths  concerning  the  origin  of  Mrs. 
Mydass's  family  go  to  prove,  except  its  present  nobility  ? 
They  were  not,  they  could  not  be,  one  whit  more  atro- 
cious than  the  legends  connected  with  the  rise  of  many 
of  the  most  illustrious  houses  in  ancient  Greece  and 
mediaeval  Europe.  Nobility,  in  short,  would  seem  to 
have  a  natural  tendency  to  grow  out  of  ^'^-nobility,  as 
flowers  do  from  the  refuse  of  the  sty  or  shambles.  Yet, 
what  young  American  would  not  be  a  nobleman  ?  We 
are  commanded  to  repent  of  our  own  sins,  but  not  of 
those  of  our  forefathers, — luckily,  for  we  are  often 
rather  proud  of  them  than  otherwise,  though  they  are 
visited  upon  us  in  more  ways  than  one ; — and,  in  the 
present  case,  Mrs.  Mydass  looked  unconscious  and  not 
at  all  repentant. 

Kevolving  around  her  and  each  other  in  their  steel 
hoops,  like  double  and  triple  stars  of  many  colors,  the 
little  be-flounced,  be-flowered,  and  be-ribboned  de- 
butantes^ in  pink,  sky-blue,  white,  and  yellow,  went 
tilting  and  swaying  through  the  crowded  door-ways,  to 
the  dazzling  drawing-rooms,  with  their  gilded  walls 
half  covered  with  large  pictures,  all  supposed,  by  the 
uninitiated,  to  be  originals  by  foreign  masters  defunct, 
two  or  three  deserving  to  be  such,  and  one  really  such. 
In  these  drawing-rooms,  winter  and  summer  seemed 
met  to  receive  the  pretty,  shivering,  human  butterflies, 
on  floors  as  white  as  snow-drifts  and  as  cold  to  their 
tiny,  white-satin  feet,  and  among  masses  and  mounds 
of  flowers  from  many  a  green-house  far  and  near. 
The  handsome  and  stylis\^  so-called,  were  instantly 

*  Style. — Analysis:  (Bandoline      +     Crinoline    +    Chatter 
+  Laughter)  2  4  6 


YOTJXG    AMERICA.  13 

pounced  upon  by  their  respective,  and  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  respectful,  admirers,  and  whirled  and  twirled 
themselves  up  into  the  seventh  heaven  like  Eastern 
dervishes.  They  enjoyed  themselves  very  much.  The 
plain  or  shy  fled  from  the  feet  of  the  polka  like  chaff" 
from  the  hands  of  the  winnower,  and  were  speedily,  we 
would  not  be  uncourtly  enough  to  say  kicked,  but 
danced  into  corners  where,  as  the  air  gradually  heated, 
they  bloomed  like  blossoms  bedewed  with  hot  tears 
from  the  candles  above  them,  or  were  driven  by  sud- 
den sorties  and  sallies  of  the  dancers  upon  the  orchestra ; 
and,  while  it  blew  Labitzky  into  their  ears  or  fiddled 
him  into  their  tresses  and  herthes^  fanned  themselves 
industriously,  and  smiled  hard.  They  enjoyed  them- 
selves as  much  as  they  could. 

The  handful  of  elderly  gentlemen  got  chairs  for  the 
handful  of  elderly  ladies  when  it  was  possible,  but  were 
duly  admonished  by  the  younger  heaux  that  they  must 
not  presume  to  meddle  with  those  destined  for  the  sup- 
port of  the  younger  helles  in  the  panting  pauses  of  the 
waltz.  Thev  grazed  benio-nlv  around,  remarked  how 
delightful  it  was  "  to  see  the  young  people  so  happy," 
and,  if  their  benevolence  was  tempered  with  prudence, 
took  good  care  to  keep  their  Venerable  toes  out  of  the 
way  of  the  happy  young  people.  If  it  was  not,  and 
they  did  not,  they  had  them  soundly  trampled  on  ; 
their  benignity  proved  as  fleeting  as  their  youth,  and 
their  age  was  wrapped  in  deeper  gloom. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  the  matrons  politely  clapped 
their  fans  upon  their  gaping  mouths,  like  covers  on 
boxes.  They  patiently  took  mental  notes  of  the  dresses 
present,  that  they  might  be  able  to  tell  their  absent 
friends  "  about  the  party,"  or  treasure  up  a  few  useful 
hints  for  their  own  future  costumes.     The  old  married 


14  HERMAN. 

men  now  and  then  attempted  a  little  wit ;  bnt  the 
younger  ladies  would  and  the  elder  could  hardly  smile 
upon  them.  .  So,  after  sundry  furtive  peeps  at  their 
watches,  "  the  feeling"  among  them  persuaded  some  of 
the  hapless  old  wives  and  widows  to  go  to  the  card-tables 
with  them,  to  make  the  time  seem  shorter,  and  then 
took  them  to  their  coaches  imless  they  had  dancing 
daughters  present,  when  they  left  them  to  their  fate, 
and  to  the  dawn  of  the  coming  day.  "  The  unfeeling  " ' 
forsook  them  speedily,  and  forgot  their  own  woes  to- 
gether in  talking  politics  ; — invaluable  topic ! — omni- 
present like  the  weather,  and  so  much  more  exciting. 

At  midnight,  in  the  armistice  which  precedes  the 
German  in  the  dancing-rooms,  while  the  mass  of  the 
company  were  contending  in  the  supper-room  below, 
or  endeavoring  still  to  force  an  entrance,  the  pure 
moonlight  sweetness  of  Schubert's  Serenade  was  play- 
ing through  the  half-emptied  apartments  ;  and  several 
music-loving  couples,  as  if  wafted  by  it,  like  flowers 
waved  by  a  soft  south  wind,  were  gently  passing  to  and 
fro  there,  to  enjoy  it.  Two  young  men  of  the  world, 
however,  (or,  as  truth  compels  me  to  own,  boys  of  the 
world,  for  the  oldest  of  the  pair  could  not  have  been 
out  of  his  teens,)  were  disturbing  the  listeners  very 
much  by  their  chattering,  as,  with  their  eyes  full  of 
eye-glasses,  they  lounged  near  one  of  the  folding-doors, 
languidly  reviewing  the  slow  procession,  which  passed 
and  repassed  before  them. 

"Who  comes  here?"  said  Mr.  Robert  Jones,  as  a 
rather  pinch-featured  but  well-dressed  lady  approached 
them,  with  an  expression  of  shrivelled  ecstasy  run  to 
seed. 

"  A  granny,  dear !"  rejoined  Mr.  John  Eobinson. 
"  What  did  you  look  at  her  for  %  Some  horrid  old 
maid  !" 


YOUNG    AiTEETCA.  15 

"  -N'o,  it  wasn't.  'Twas  Mrs.  Jonathan  Howard. 
I  ogled  her  as  hard  as  I  could,  on  purpose  to  make  her 
think  I'm  a  nice  young  man,  who  can  appreciate  moral 
and  intellectual  excellence  even  after  beauty  may  be, 
— ^just  a  little, — on  the  wane.  Too  much  mind  ;  but 
her  husband  has  a  lovely  place  down  on  Clam  Beach, 
— lots  of  company  all  the  time  in  summer, — and  I  want 
to  make  her  invite  me  next  July  or  August." 

' "  Has  a  husband  and  place  at  the  sea-shore,  has  she  ? 
That's  some  apology  for  her  I  I  don't  see  what  busi- 
ness women  of  her  age  have  to  go  out,  though, — only 
meandering  about,  and  getting  in  the  way  of  the  peo- 
ple the  party  was  made  for,  and  trying  to  simper  you 
into  finding  their  carriages  for  them,  just  as  your  part- 
ner gets  desperate  and  goes  off  with  somebody  else. 
They  ought  to  be  '  stayers  at  home,'  as  the  good  book 
says." 

"  Here's  an  old  maid  for  vou  now,  if  you  want 
one." 

"  I  don't,  thank  you ;  but  I  know  her,  and  she 
knows  me  too,  I'm  afraid  ;  for  she  would  stand  winking 
and  blinking,  with  her  eye-glass  up,  at  Mrs.  Eben  Clif- 
ford's, the  other  night  when  I  was  manager,  right  in 
the  way  of  everybody  in  the  all-round^  till  at  last,  in  the 
conscientious  discharge  of  the  duties  of  my  office,  I  really 
had  to  dance  right  into  her. — You  wa'n't  there.  Too 
exclusive,  were  you?  Lots  of  fun  you  lost  by  it,  let  me 
tell  you.  Half  a  dozen  of  us  nobs  went  together,  and 
had  it  all  our  own  way.  The  house  of  Cliftbrd  were  so 
glad  to  get  us  on  any  terms,  that  old  Ebby  couldn't 
say  a  word.  He  only  walked  round  the  whole  evening 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  asking  us  to  take  wine,  and 
thanking  us  for  coming. — Well,  I  had  that  horrid  Miss 
Andrews,  you  know, — two  yards  in   the   girth,  and 


16  HERMAN. 

weighs  twenty  stone!  'Twas  no  fault  of  mine. 
I  never  asked  her ;  but  she  would  keep  taking  me 
out,  and  tiring  me  to  death  ;  and  so  I  thought  I'd  break 
her  of  it,  you  know,  and  kill  two  birds  with  twenty 
stone.  So  first  I  spun  her  round  till  she  didn't  know 
where  she  was ; — by  Jove,  my  arm's  been  as  stiff  as 
buckram  ever  since  ! — 'twas  like  giving  a  screw 
to  Bunker  Hill  Monument ! — Then  I  put  on  the  steam, 
and  made  her  show  her  paces,  got  her  going  ^t  a  two- 
forty  in  a  retraite^  and  bounced  her  right  into  Miss 
Simmins,  and  Miss  Simmins  into  a  cocked  hat ! 

'  Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen ! 
There  you  and  I  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 
And  the  next  couple  stumbled  over  us !'" 

"  What !     Went  down,  did  they  ?" 

"  Miss  Andrews  on  top  of  Miss  Simmins,  and  I  on 
top  of  all !  I  meant  to  brace  myself  back  when  it  came 
to  the  point,  as  I  have  done  hundreds  of  times  in  such 
emergencies,  and  bring  up  all  standing ;  but  the  floor 
was  waxed,  and  my  boot  slipped,  and,  as  I  told  you, 
my  arm  was  good  for  nothing ;  and  then  conceive  of 
the  momentum  of  that  mass  in  motion!  Simmy's 
breath  was  squashed  out  of  her,  under  the  pile  of  us,  in 
one  little  squawk^  just  like  what  a  toy-dog  makes  when 
you  trea-d  on  it ;  but,  after  we  pried  Miss  Andrev^s  off 
her,  she  didn't  seem  so  much  the  worse. 

'Tender  maids  are  tough.' 

Perhaps  'twas  quite  as  well  for  me,  that  neither  of 
them  did  recover  her  speech  till  I'd  had  presence  of 
mind  enough  to  be  faint,  which  I  did,  luckily,  before 
either  of  them  thought  of  it.  Sam  Holmes  and  Seth 
Somerville  had  had  their  eyes  on  me  all  the  time,  and 
understood,  arid  were  perfectly  enchanted  with,  my 


YOUNG   AMEEICA.  17 

conduct  from  first  to  last ;  so  they  nished  to  the  rescue, 
and  tumbled  me  out  into  the  dressing-room,  and  pearl- 
powdered  mj  face  to  an  affecting  pallor ;  and  Minny 
Blaise  and  Fanny  Flirt  came  out  and.  fanned  and 
cologned  me.  That  little  Fanny  Flirt's  a  real  duck, — 
only  sixteen  ! — 'twas  a  nursery-party,  you  know, — and 
so  much  manner  and  s(woir  faire  !  Self-possession's 
perfect !" 

"  Apologized  yet  ?" 

"  IS'ot  I.  I've  no  business  to  speak  to  Miss  Andrews, 
because  I  don't  know  her ;  and  as  to  the  venerable 
Simmins,  if  I.  approached  her  with  any  such  purpose, 
the  natural  candor  of  my  disposition  would  break 
through  all  the  figments  of  conventionalism  in  some 
such  speech  as,  *  Aged  maiden,  it  is  you  who  owe  an 
apology  to  me,  and  not  to  me  only,  but  to  the  society 
of  which  you  are  no  ornament !  You  have  received  but 
the  deserts  and  the  portion  of  intrusive  old  maiden- 
hood; and,  if  you.  do  not  like  them,  consider  what 
business  you  have  to  be  an  old  maid,  or  to  have  any 
portion  at  all  beneath  the  sun.  You  are  thirty, 
madam, — thirty  years  old,  if  you  are  a  day.  You 
know  it;  and  no  doubt  the  parish  register  shows  it. 
Long  ago  you  should  have  ensconced  yourself  in  the 
wedding-veil,  or  in  the  shroud  ;  and  if  our  laws  were 
not  conceived  in  a  spirit  of  most  weak  and  self-defeat- 
ing mercy  as  short-sighted  as  yourself,  they  would  set 
apart  a  convenient  little  space  in  the  Back  Bay,  near 
Braman's  Baths,  to  be  used  as  a  Bosphorus  in  which  to 
drop  you  over,  and  with  you  all  other  offenders 
like  you,  who  presume  to  keep  their  patronymics 
after  their  twenty-fifth  birth  days,  at  the  very  latest. 
The  Humane  Society  ought  to  famish  sacks ;  and, 
if  it  won't,  you  can  set  some  of  your  gewing-circles 


18  "  HERMAN. 

to  make  them,  instead  of  aprons  for  the  Broad-street 
babies !'  " 

"  You'd  make  the  girls  more  attentive  to  us  than 
they  are  now." 

"  ]N"o  matter.     It's  a  good  fault." 

"  Well,  I've  no  objection  to  the  plan,  provided 
you'll  save  me  out  Clara  Arden,  as  our  little  ISTell  al- 
ways makes  the  cook  keep  the  prettiest  kitten  for  her, 
when  she  puts  the  rest  of  the  litter  in  soak,  as  the 
washerwomen  say.  If  my  dog  didn't  shake  half  a  dozen 
or  so  of  her  cats  from  time  to  time,  we  should  be  eaten 
up  by  them  ;  but  when  he  does,  I'm  sorry  to  relate, 
she  shakes  the  house  simultaneously  with  her  voice, 
and  will  not  be  comforted,  like  Rachel  weeping  for  her 
children." 

"  What  do  you  want  Clara  Arden  kept  any  longer 
for  ?  By  the  way,  here  she  is !  *  Talk  of  the 
devil '— ! " 

A  lady  and  gentleman  of  singularly  fine  and  dis- 
tinguished presence  were  drawing  near,  towering  above 
the  couples  before  and  behind  them,  in  fair,  calm,  and 
generous  beauty  as  well  as  in  stature. 

"Who^s  that  with  her?" 

"  Why,  her  brother,  the  Doctor.  Don't  you  see, 
you  blind  bat  ?" 

"  Why  does  he  walk  with  her,  then  ?  What  a 
spoon !" 

Edward  Arden  walked  with  his  sister  for  three  rea- 
sons :  first,  he  liked  to  please  her ;  secondly,  he  was 
fastidious,  and  thought  her  decidedly,  and,  with  one 
exception,  incomparably,  the  handsomest  and  most 
graceful  woman  present,  and  accordingly  the  most 
suitable  companion  for  himself;  and,  lastly,  consider- 
ing himself  on  the  whole  the  best  male  speculation  in 


TOTING    AMERICA.  19 

the  matrimonial  market,  he  always  labored  under  the 
unfounded  apprehension,  that  somebody  would  take  it 
into  her  head  to  marry  him,  and  that  he  should  not  be 
able  to  help  it  without  taking  more  trouble  than  he 
usually  found  it  agreeable  to  take  about  anything;  and 
he  was  therefore  glad  to  place  himself  under  his  sister's 
protection. 

"  I  don't  believe  she's  a  day  over  twenty-three,"  re- 
sumed' one  of  the  interlocutors. 

"  What'll  you  bet  ?" 

"  ^ot  much.  The  last  boat-race  shelled  me  out 
like  a  pea-pod  ;  and  the  governor  got  wind  of  it,  and 
was  perfectly  savage.  I've  been  as  poor  as  a  beggar 
ever  since,  and  shall  be  till  next  quarter-day;  after,  too, 
unless  he  comes  round." 

"  I  don't  see  that  she's  anything  to  make  a  fuss 
about,  though.  She's  a  good-looker,  to  be  sure ;  but 
she  hasn't  half  the  style  of  Miss  Moad." 

"  I  thought  she  was  an  angel,  once. — I  tell  you  I 
did.  What  are  you  smirking  at  ? — I  tell  you,  she  was 
as  good  as  an  angel  to  me,  once,  when  I  was  a  little 
chap,  and  had  the  measles.  We  were  at  Saratoga,  at 
the  United  States  Hotel.  There  was  a  great  hojy  ;  and 
just  as  my  sister-in-law  was  going  to  lead  off  in  the 
Redowa,  Dr.  Arden,  who  knew  she  couldn't  be  every- 
where at  once,  ran  up  to  see  after  me,  and  found  me 
half  mad  with  dreams,  fright,  and  fever,  all  alone,  up 
in  the  third  story,  where  they'd  put  me  to  keep  my  in- 
fection to  myself.  ISTobody  could  hear  when  I  called  ; 
and  my  hussy  of  a  nurse  had  gone  off,  flirting  with 
somebody.  Well,  my  sister  was  sorry,  of  course,  and 
did  what  she  could;  but  she  was  engaged  twenty 
deep ;  so  she  asked  the  doctor  if  he  wouldn't  just  send 
a  waiter  to  find  the  nurse.     But  the  man  couldn't  find 


20  HERMAN. 

her,  or  didn't  try,  or  something ;  and  meanwhile  I  got 
to  sleep  again,  and  dreamed  the  devil  had  caught  me, 
and  was  cramming  my  month  with  cinders  and  ashes. 
I  howled  right  out,  and  woke  sputtering,  with  my 
tongue  feeling  exactly  as  if  I'd  had  a  particularly  good 
time  at  dinner  the  day  before,  which  wasn't  the  case." 

"  As  if  you  had  a  whole  duck  in  your  mouth,  with 
all  the  feathers  on,  bitter  as  burdocks  ?" 

"  Precisely !  But  before  I  knew  where  I  was,  Clara 
Arden  had  hold  of  me,  and  was  lifting  my  head  up, 
and  patting  my  pillows ;  and  I  did  think  she  was  an 
angel,  and  asked  her  to  make  the  devil  keep  off  me ; 
and  she  smiled,  and  said  she  would.  I  believe  she 
could,  if  anybody ; — and  when  I  came  to  my  senses, 
and  she  found  how  thirsty  I  was,  she  rang  the  bell,  and 
spoke  to  the  servant  in  that  gentle,  queenly  way  of 
hers,  that  he  knew  he'd  got  to  mind,  and  made  him 
bring  her  fresh  water,  and  powdered  sugar,  and  a  great 
dish  of  currants,  in  a  trice.  And  there  she  stood,  you 
know  how,  as  she  always  does,  so  light  and  yet  so 
stately,  like  a  magnificent  white  pigeon  just  come 
down,  in  her  white  tarlatane,  that  seemed  to  light  up 
the  black  chamber,  and  brewed  me  the  nicest  drink  I 
ever  tasted.  Then  she  sat  down  by  me,  and  talked,  and 
laughed,  and  cooed  out  pretty  little  cheerful  stories,  till 
midnight.  Pretty  well  frightened  the  nurse  was,  too, 
when  she  came  back,  to  find  her  there  ;  while  all  the 
time  we  could  hear  the  teetle-tum,  tum^  teetle-tum  of 
the  music  going  on  down  below ;  and  she  was  the  best 
dancer  there  that  summer,  though  unfortunately  too 
tall.  She's  a  real  trump!  There  isn't  anything  I 
wouldn't  do  for  her.  I  declare,  if  I  was  anything  of  a 
marrying  man,  I'd  marry  Clara  Arden  to-morrow 
rather  than  any  other  girl  in  Boston." 


YOUNG    AMEBICA.  21 

"Thank  you,  Bobby;  but  I  should  want  a  little 
longer  notice,"  said  a  soft,  arch  voice  at  his  elbow,  as 
Clara,  repassing,  curved  her  white  throat,  and  nodded 
good-humoredly,  but  rather  mischievously,  back  at  him, 
over  her  long,  sweeping,  snow-drift  of  a  shoulder.     . 

"  Good  gracious,"  ejaculated  the  discomfited  Bobby, 
coloring  up  to  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  not  to  say  the  rip 
of  his  glove. 

"  Served  her  right  for  eaves-dropping  ?"  rejoined 
Mr.  Jack  Robinson,  who  was,  like  a  mosquito,  very 
venomous  for  one  of  his  size. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  supper-room  was  pouring  up 
its  tide  into  the  drawing-rooms  again,  like  a  reflex 
wave  from  the  Spouting  Horn  ;  and  a  few  skirmishing 
waltzes  were  preluding  the  last  grand  engagement. 

"  By  Jove,  what  a  stunner  !" 

"  A  screamer  !     "Who  is  it  ?" 

Keither  a  pugilist  nor  a  town-crier,  as  these  epi- 
thets, (evidently,  from  the  tone  in  which  they  were 
uttered,  intended  to  be  complimentary,  though  other- 
wise certainly  a  little  alarming  if  employed  to  charac- 
terize feminine  attributes,)  would  have  seemed  to  imply, 
was  entering  the  room,  but  a  superb  girl  of  eighteen  or 
nineteen,  as  tall  and  fleet-looking,  and  almost  as  slen- 
der, as  Diana's  spear,  and  just  now,  at  least,  looking 
almost  as  sharp  and  fatal.  Her  outline  was  as  oriental 
as  Eebecca's ;  and  she  seemed  to  breathe  from  every 
feature  an  expression  of  indignant  pride,  which  would 
not  have  misbecome  that  heroine  when  she  threatened 
to  dash  herself  down  from  the  battlements.  At  her 
side  moved  a  slender  but  very  shapely  youth,  whose 
height,  and  age  too,  apparently,  scarcely  exceeded  hers. 
He  would  have  been,  like  her,  uncommonly  handsome, 
but  for  the  unnatural  paleness  which  discolored  his 


22  HERMAN. 

fine,  earnest,  oval,  olive  face, — a  paleness  made  the  more 
conspicuous  bj  the  bright  blackness  of  his  moustache 
and  thick,  round  curls,  and  the  almost  blackness  of  his 
burning  brown  eyes.  They  passed,  speaking  little,  and 
in  tones  too  low  to  be  heard  above  the  general  outcry 
of  conversation  about  them.  He  looked  much  at  her ; 
she,  straight  on  with  a  gaze  which  seemed  to  pierce  the 
very  walls  and  the  future  before  her.  When  her  lips 
unclosed,  he  grew,  if  possible,  whiter. 

"  I  know  who  it  must  be  !  Miss  Constance  Aspen- 
wall,  of  South  Carolina.  She  was  to  be  here.  They 
say  she's  worth  four  hundred  thousand  dollars,  niggers 
and  all !" 

"  Put  it  up  to  a  million,  while  you're  about  it.  Bob. 
But,  by  George,  what  a  temper  she  must  have !" 

"  Don't  like  such  a  little  partner,  I  suppose,"  said 
Mr.  Bob  Jones,  unrolling,  and  drawing  up  his  lank  five 
feet  eleven  of  skin  and  bone,  as  if  he  had  been  a  tape- 
measure,  from  the  divan  on  which  he  had  been  lounging. 

"  *  I  had  a  little  husband 

No  higger  than  my  thumb. 
I  put  him  in  a  pint-pot, 
And  there  I  bid  him  drum ;' 

and  then  I  took  a  most  ecstatic  twirl  or  two  with  Rob- 
ert Jones,  Junior,  Esquire.  Guess  I  shall  have  to  try 
my  luck.     If  she's  cross,  I'll — " 

"Hallo!  Why,  that's  Herman  Arden  w^ith  her! 
It's  a  perfect  tableau  of  Judith  and  Holofernes !  He'g 
chalky  enough  already  ;  and  she  looks  as  if  she'd  have 
her  fingers  in  his  hair  in  another  minute.  Do  you 
know  what  he  did  the  other  night  ?" 

"Got  tight?" 

"  I  should  think  so.  He  went  and  made  a  nasty 
sneaking  Abolition  speech  at  a  caucus." 


YOUNG    AMERICA.  23 

"  What  got  into  him  ?" 

"  The  deuce,  I  suppose.  I  wonder  he  dares  show 
himself  anywhere  among  genteel  people.  He  might 
have  known  Mrs.  Mjdass  didn't  want  him  here,  and 
only  asked  him  because  she  couldn't  get  along  without 
her  '  most  particular  friends,'  his  brother  and  sister. 
He  must  have  some  brass  to  speak  to  a  JSoutherner  af- 
ter it — a  lady  especially." 

"  Hallo,  Miss  Blaise !  I'm  not  ready  for  you  yet. 
You  know  Miss  Aspenwall,  don't  you?  Present  me 
to  her  ^rst,  will  you  ?" 

"  Miss  Aspenwall,  Mr.  Jones.  Mr.  Jones,  Miss 
Aspenwall." 

"May  I  have  the  pleasure?"  said  Mr.  Jones,  ex- 
tending his  arm. 

"  I  thank  you.     I  never  waltz." 

"  Oh,  then,  you  don't  know  how  much  "you  are 
losing !  One  turn  with  me  will  whirl  every  scruple 
to  the  winds ;  and — " 

"  Tou  will  have  the  goodness  to  excuse  me.  Good 
evening."  She  swept  off  to  a  window,  but  there  she 
found  herself  followed  still,  by  Herman.  "  What  does 
this  mean,  Mr.  Arden  ?" 

"  Good  heavens,  Constance,  what  does  it  mean  ?  Do 
you  know  what  you  are  doing  ?  You  know,  you  must 
know,  how — what  you  are,  and  what  you  are  to  me ! 
— and  that  I  offer  you  a  heart — not  worthy  of  such  a 
prize  as  yours,  indeed,— whose  could  be  ? — but,  if  there 
is  no  tenderness  in  yours  to  plead  for  it,  I  must  say  for 
myself,  a  true,  fresh,  loyal  heart  at  least,  ready  and 
eager  to  serve  you  to  the  death  second  only  to  the  God 
who  made  you  ;  and  to  love  you  only — I  dare  not  say, 
less  than  BQm, — but  only  too  well ;  and  you  trample  it 
in  the  dust  beneath  your  feet,  turn  upon  me,  and  cast 


24  HERMAN. 

nie  down  at  one  stroke  from  the  threshold  of  heaven  to 
hell,  and  reject  me,  not,  (as  you  have  a  full  and  un- 
questioned right  to  do,)  with  womanly  gentleness,  and 
consideration  due  both  to  your  character  and  mine,  but 
with  scorn  and  insult — with  no  explanation  ! — ^Is  this 
worthy  of  you?"  The  color  that  the  smothered  vehe- 
mence of  his  low  and  hurried  words  had  brought  back 
into  his  face,  and  the  sort  of  indignant  tenderness  that 
glowed  in  it,  made  him   perfectly   beautiful. 

Constance's  bosom  heaved  for  an  instant; — for  she 
was  a  girl,  and  not  a  heartless  girl, — but  it  was  only 
for  an  instant ;  for  she  was  a  haughty  and  determined 
woman.     "  Perhaps  it  is  not." 

"  Of  your  rejection,!  do  not  claim  a  right  to  ask  an 
explanation."  (Poor  fellow !  If  he  had  not  been  the 
most  delicate  and  generous  of  lovers,  he  might  have 
claimed  all  the  right  to  ask  it,  that  could  be  given  him 
by  as  much  tacit  acceptance  of  his  tacit  wooing,  as  a 
most  maidenly  and  dignified  girl  could  grant.)  "  Of  the 
manner  of  it  I  do." 

"  You  shall  have  it." 

"  When  ? — I  have  pressed  you  far  enough  already, 
for  such  a  place  and  time  as  this." 

"  You  have,  indeed !" 

"  Oh,  Miss  Aspenwall  !"— 

"  To-morrow  morning,  if  you  please,  at  half-past 
eleven." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  inquire  for  your  coach  ?" 

"  JSTo,  I  thank  you.     Mr.  Yan  Eooselandt  is  here." 


TEE    KNIGHT'S    LAX)T.  25 


CHAFTEB    II. 

THE   KNIGHT'S   LADY. 

' '  A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair."  Tennyson. 

^'Etre  la  destinee  toiUe  d'un  grand  Jiomme,  agir  'par  sa  main, 
grander  dans  son  sort,  briller  sous  son  noni,  c'eiait  la  seule  ambition 
que  lui  fut  permise,  ambition  tendre  et  devoute  qui  seduit  lafemme, 
comm£  elle  suffit  au  gtnie  de  sinteresse." 

Lamaethtr. 

CoxsTAxcE  AsPExwAEL  WRS  R  Yerj  intelligent,  very 
MgK-flovm^  and,  as  she  would  have  said  with  pride,  a, 
very  high-spirited  girl ;  or,  as  she  onght  to  have  felt, 
with  shame,  a  very  high-tempered  girl.  She  was  an 
orphan.  Her  only  brother  had  thought  himself  sum- 
moned by  the  love  of  glory  and  of  his  country,  to 
leave  her,  in  the  year  ISiT,  and  go  and  try  to  shoot 
some  Mexicans,  for  endeavouring  to  defend  their  fami- 
lies and  certain  lands  belonging  to  them,  which  these 
United  States  would  have  been  much  better  without, 
and  did  not  want,  but  which  a  few  slaveholding  indi- 
viduals thought  that  they  did,  for  the  better  holding  of 
their  slaves  and  supremacy.  His  enterprise  terminated 
in  the  Mexicans,  very  naturally,  shooting  him.  The 
poor  young  man,  though  ignorant  and  infatuated,  was 
generous  and  well-meaning  and  deserved  a  better  fate, 
like  many  other  light-hearted  and  thoughtless  youths, 
who  were  butchered  like  beasts,  or  broken  down  for 
life,  in  that  miserable  and  wicked  war.  To  make  other 
little  sisters  orphans  and  desolate,  he  left  his  own,  cry- 
ing bitterly,  to  the  rearing  of  strangers,  and  his  negroes, 
•2 


S6  HEEMAlf. 

crying  more  bitterly  and  with  more  reason,  to  the  ten- 
der mercies  of  un-overseen  overseers. 

How  the  negroes  fared,  never  fully  transpired. 
Colonel  Rochemamice,  Constance's  cousin,  and  guar- 
dian of  her  property,  conscientiously  visited  her  plan- 
tation once  in  every  twelvemonth,  and  usually  found  it 
expedient  to  place  the  management  of  it  in  new  hands ; 
but  that  was  all  that  he  found  time  to  do  in  regard  to 
it,  excej)t  to  see  that  a  proper  amount  of  produce  was 
regularly  forthcoming  and  sold,  and  that  the  proceeds 
were  profitably  invested. 

Constance  herself,  in  the  meanwhile,  did  neither 
so  well  nor  so  ill  as  she  might  have  done.  The  influ- 
ences of  a  gentle  and  genial  home,  invaluable  to  a  rich 
but  wayward  nature  like  hers,  were  lost  to  her.  She 
was  kept',  for  the  most  part,  during  the  remainder  of 
her  minority,  at  one  and  another  boarding-school  at 
New  York,  where  she  imbibed  the  necessary  amount 
of  spelling,  arithmetic,  and  foreign  languages,  and 
learned  to  draw  and  paint  a  little,  and  to  play  and  sing 
magnificently.  She  was  not  generally  beloved  by  her 
schoolmates,  because  she  did  not  generally  love  them ; 
but  she  always  had  one  or  two  retainers,  who  admired 
her  beauty,  applauded  her  spirit,  shared  her  lavish 
allowance  of  pocket-money,  and,  until  she  fell  out  with 
them  in  their  turn,  were  very  fond  of  her ;  as  they  could 
hardly  help  being;  tor,  when  she  allowed  herself  to  be 
gentle  and  fond,  all  the  concentrated  warmth  of  her 
natural  disposition  burst  forth,  and  warmed  the  few  on 
whom  it  fell,  as  the  June  sun  is  hottest  when  it  breaks 
through  a  hole  in  the  clouds  on  an  overcast  day.  She 
wished  to  be  a  queen  among  her  companions.  She  was 
crushing  in  her  scorn  to  rebels ;  but  her  obedient  sub- 
jects found  in  her  a  powerful  and  bo.unteous  pro- 
tectress. 


27 

Alas,  poor  Youth !  How  Nemesis  stalks  at  your 
heels,  picking  up  your  every  fault,  and  so^ving  it,  to 
raise  a  harvest  of  sorrow  for  youi*  reaping  in  after  days ! 
How  each  of  your  peccadilloes  grows  up  into  a  habit ! 
And  how  are  you  suffered,  rashly,  confidently,  and  un- 
fearino;,  to  entano^le  and  knot  the  tln-ead  of  which  the 
web  of  all  your  earthly  life, — the  only  life  for  which  most 
of  us  care  much  now, — is  woven  !  Such  as  Constance 
had  been  in  her  school,  such  she  came  out  of  her 
school,  and,  tliinking  to  bend  a  playful,  caressing  kitten 
to  her  w411,  laid  the  full  weight  of  her  gu'lish  hand  on 
what  rose  under  it  a  kingly  young  lion  ! 

Even  when  kind  to  her  companions,  she  "  felt,"  that 
is  to  say,  fancied,  herself  immeasurably  superior  to 
them  all.  They  were  frivolous,  girlish,  and  childish. 
Their  thoughts  ran  on  dress  and  admirers ;  and  it  had 
never  occurred  to  her  to  ask  herself  whether  the  indiffer- 
ence for  which  she  gave  herself  credit,  on  these  points, 
was  not,  so  far  as  it  was  real,  the  mere  apathy  of 
satiety, — a  satiety  which  offered  itself  to  her  at  nursery 
parties  and  summer  watering-places,  long  before  her 
regular  dtbut. — They  had  no  such  aspirations  as  hers. 
She  had  a  soul  all  on  fire  with  what  stood  in  her  mind 
for  the  love  of  country ;  and  the  South  stood  in  her 
mind  for  the  country,  and  three  hundred  thousand 
slaveholders  for  the  South.  The  denunciations  of 
the  South,  which  she  met  with  in  some  quarters, 
and  the  equally  indiscreet  and  violent  denunciations  of 
those  denunciations,  which  she  met  with  in  others,  alike 
inflamed  her  pseudo-patriotism,  and,  as  a  Southern  girl, 
she  considered  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  hate  tlie 
Korth.  If  her  country  would  but  point  out  to  her 
some  sacrifice  which  she  could  make, — some  service 
which  she  could  render  to  it !     If  there  were  only  Clo- 


28  HERMAN. 

rindas  now,  how  she  would  rush  to  Mexico,  and  avengo 
the  loss  which,  in  her  gallant  brother's  death,  had  been 
sustained  both  by  herself  and  her  native  land !  If  she 
had  been  a  man^  she  would  have  conquered  for  it  this 
whole  continent,  from  the  pole  to  the  isthmus  ;  nay, 
perhaps. to  Cape  Horn;  (bigness  standing  in  her  mind 
for  greatness — a  rare  mistake!— but  pardonable  in  a 
school-girl ;)  and  then,  mighty  in  counsel  as  in  arms, 
she  would  have  consolidated  it  all  into  one  vast  repub- 
lic. A  crown  should,  indeed,  have  been  offered  her  by 
her  grateful  and  adoring  countrymen,  but  she  would 
have  majestically  waved  it  aside,  preferring  to  find  her. 
own  glory  in  the  grandeur  and  liberty  of  her  exalted 
nation.  The  South, — meaning  again  the  Council  of 
Three  Hundred  Thousand, — should  govern  it,  c^est- 
a-dire,  hold  its  government  offices,  and  fight  for  it. 
The  supple  and  pusillanimous,  but  ingenious  and  indus- 
trious North,  should  be  kept  out  of  mischief,  and 
suitably  employed  in  fetching,  carrying,  spinning,  and 
weaving,  for  it ;  and  all  within  its  borders  should  have 
been  beautiful  order,  dominion,  and  glory, — had  she 
been  a  man.  Being  not  a  man,  however,  she  shrank 
instinctively,  as  most  persons  of  fine  feminine  natures 
will,  from  wishing  herself  one,  as  a  kind  of  sin  against 
her  nature.  She  turned  from  the  dazzling  vision, 
came  down  from  the  throne  of  her  castle  in  the  air, 
and  set  another  Lord  upon  it  in  her  place,  thus  : 

When  she  was  emancipated  from  her  school,  and  left 
behind  her  the  prosaic  and  grovelling  companions  and 
teacliers,  who  could  not  so  much  as  understand  her,  far 
less  sympathize  with  her,  she  should  emerge,  of  course, 
like  other  heroines,  into  an  appreciating  and  admiring 
world,  all  whose  unmarried  men  would  at  once  throw 
themselves  at  the  feet  of  a  creature  endowed  with  such 


29 

wealth,  rank,  intellect,  spirit,  and  beauty.  Most  of  her 
Buitors  would  be  too  far  beneath  her  for  anything  but 
her  very  scorn  to  stoop  to ;  but  among  them  there  would 
still  be  one  glorious  kindred  spirit,  waiting  only  for  the 
inspiration  of  her  ardor,  loveliness,  devotion,  and  sym- 
pathy, to  prove  himself  the  mightiest  champion  and 
most  stainless  patriot  of  his  age  and  time.  Him  she 
would  cherish  with  her  whole  soul,  and  honor  and 
obey ; — yes,  indeed,  it  would  be  her  o^vn  will  to  obey 
him,  her  mightier,  grander,  more  magnificent  self, — 
and  the  beautiful  untameable,  won  at  last,  would  exult 
in  the  silken  bonds  and  golden  chains  with  which  her 
love  should  fondly  deck  her  and  bind  her  to  his  side. 

Ah,  Constance  !  Our  wishes  often  come  within  our 
reach  in  this  dim  life,  but  oftenest,  perhaps,  in  a  mas- 
querading dress  ;  and  so  we  turn  away  from  them,  and 
are  wiser  and  sadder  when  it  is  too  late.  We  strike 
them  down,  it  may  be,  with  our  own  hands,  and  then 
the  mask  drops  off ;  and  we  know  them  as  they  he 
in  the  dust  before  us ;  but,  though  we  weep  and  wring 
our  hands  over  them,  they  cannot  rise  again.  They 
are  dead,  and  can  return  no  more,  or  only  as  pale 
Memories,  which  are  the  ghosts  of  Hopes,  to  haunt  us 
in  our  lonely  hours,  with  "  those  saddest  of  words,  'It 
might  have  been  ! '  "  How  should  the  apostate  cru- 
sader know  that  the  helmeted  page  is  liis  Eosahe? 
Why  should  he  not  clench  "his  gauntleted  hand" 
against  him  ?  How  can  Penelope  tell,  that  the  wan- 
dering supplicant  on  her  hearth  is  her  own  longed-for 
and  prayed-for  Ulysses?  Why  may  she  not  set  the 
dogs  upon  him,  or  let  the  other  suitors  slay  him? 
How  can  we  see  whether  or  not  we  are  spurning  our 
happiness  or  clasping  our  woe  ? 

How,  indeed,  if  we  are  hving  hke  apostates  or  pa- 


30  HERMAN. 

gans  ?  But  there  is  a  certain  very  old-fashioned,  not  to  say 
obsolete,  Book,  which  says,  "  If  any  man  lack  wisdom, 
let  him  ask  of  God,  who  giveth  to  all  liberally,  and 
iipbraideth  not ;  and  it  shall  be  given  him."  And 
though  this  promise  probably  refers  more  directly  to 
wisdom  in  the  management  of  one's  heavenly  than 
one's  earthly  affairs,  yet  the  two  are  closely  connected ; 
and  heavenly  wisdom  would  certainly  save  us  from  the 
most  lamentable  of  our  earthly  errors,  and  from  those 
bitterest  of  regrets  which  come  when  we  discover  that 
we  have  suffered  ourselves  to  be  cheated  into  sacrificing 
some  bliss,  offered  us  by  the  God  who  serves  us,  to 
some  demon  whom  we  at  the  time  were  serving. 

Constance,  however,  was  not  aware  that  she  was  in 
any  want  of  wisdom,  nor  yet  did  she  consider  herself 
to  be  living  in  the  least  like  an  apostate  nor  a  pagan ; 
for  she  went  to  church  at  least  once  every  Sunday, 
when  the  weather  was  fine,  and  scolded  herself  very 
hard,  not  to  say  very  justly,  out  of  a  prayer-book.  Out 
of  church,  to  be  sure,  she  thought  humility  a  virtue  fit 
only  for  servants,  small  traders,  and  clergymen.  Hell, 
in  her  creed,  was  a  very  suitable  place  for  dirty,  igno- 
rant, and  wicked  people,  who  used  bad  language,  robbed, 
and  murdered.  It  was  very  meet  and  right,  that  they 
should  be  kept  somewhere  out  of  the  way  of  their  bet- 
ters, or  else  be  burnt  up  at  once.  I^ow  and  then, 
likewise,  there  might  be  an  exceptional  condemnation 
thereto,  in  the  case  of  some  urmsually  ill-behaved  lady 
or  gentleman,  who  died  suddenly,  or  perversely  and 
unaccountably  refused  on  his  death-bed  to  say  he  was 
sorry,  repeat  his  prayers,  and  send  for  a  clergjonan. 
As  for  the  possibility  of  anything  like  punishment  for 
anything  she  did,  ever  coming  near  her  in  this  world 
or  the  next,  she  never  imagined  any  such  thing.     Her 


religion  was  negative,  not  positive.  It  forbade  her  to 
commit  any  State's  Prison  offences ;  and  if  she  refrained 
from  such  tempting  indulgences  during  her  mortal  life, 
which  she  anticipated  little  difficulty  in  doing,  it 
promised  to  confer  upon  her  heaven  at  her  death,  not 
at  all  as  a  favor,  but  as  her  due  and  well  earned  wages. 
The  doctrine  of  human  neis^hbourhood  and  Christian 
brotherhood  she  ignored  altogether ;  and,  in  short,  she 
was  just  as  much  of  a  Christian  as  she  might  have  been 
if  she  had  been  a  respectable  Pharisee's  well-reputed 
daughter,  nineteen  hundred  years  ago.  Her  God  was 
the  god  of  battles ;  and  she  thought  the  most  victorious 
of  warriors,  conquering  for  his  country  in  any  cause, 
right  or  wrong,  the  greatest  of  heroes.  I  do  wrong, 
however,  to  say  that  she  thovght ;  for,  like  most 
women,  (and  men,  too,)^  she  had  yet  to  learn  to  think. 
She  took  for  her  opinions  the  first  ideas  that  came  in 


*  Let  Mm  or  her  who  doubts  that  daring  assertion,  take  a  seat  in 
any  omnibus  or  car  that  runs  four  or  five  miles  out  from  Boston,  and 
in  again;  and  let  him  or  her  listen  to  the  common  run  of  the  wearers 
of  waistcoats  ttiereiu,  as  they  earnestly,  but  hesitatingly,  stiltily,  in 
very  news-paper' sh  English,  and  with  an  air  as  of  men  somewhac 
painfully  overtnsking  their  memories,  endeavour  to  discuss politics; 
then  let  the  listener,  alighting  from  the  car  or  omnibus,  enter  tlie 
nearest  reading-room  and,  for  the  argument  of  the  Democrat,  see  yes- 
terday's Post,^OT  CouHer,  and  for  that  of  the  "Whig,  the  leader  in'the 
Boston  Daily  Advertiser  or  perhaps,  if  said  Whi^:  be  a  very  general 
reader,  some  old  speech  of  Daniel  Webster's;  and  then  let  the  listener 
say  whether  that  daring  assertion  is  not  founded  on  fact. 

Now  1  am  far. from  implying  that  the  arguments  which  these  way- 
side orators  attempt  to  pit  against  each  other  may  not  be,  in  them- 
selves, sound  and  forcible;  for  editors  of  newspaper-s  occasionally  say 
very  good  things,  and  Mr.  Webster  did  so  frequently;  that  is  not  the 
point.  The  point  is  tbat  the  arguments  in  quesiion,  good  or  bad, 
never  grew  out  of  the  brains  adjacent  to  the  tongues  that  now  utter, 
or  try  to  utter  them;  as  may  l)e  inferred  not  only  from  our  finding, — 
at  the  reading-room, — where  they  did  come  from,  but  ii'om  the 
speakers  using  them  against  each  other  with  about  as  much  facility 
and  appropriateness  as  a  pair  of  emulous  and  painstaking  parrots 
strenuouslj  enunciating  against  each  other  from  their  opposite  perch- 
es, one  a  clause  taken  at  random  and  taught  him  from  one  of  Fox's 
orations,  and  his  interlocutor,  a  sentence  chosen  for  him  in  like 
manner  from  a  speech  of  Pitt's. 


32  HERMAN. 

her  way,  and  for  her  worship  the  first  idols,  provided 
only  that  they  had  pretty  names  engraven  on  their 
pedestals. 

Constance,  in  due  time,  (juite  grew  up,  (to  the 
height  of  -^ye  feet,  eight  inches,)  and  came  out ;  but 
she  found  the  world  without  the  walls  of  her  boarding- 
school  almost  as  dull  and  unresponsive  as  that  portion 
of  the  world  which  she  had  left  behind  within  them, 
after  the  first  excitement  of  the  really  unusual  sensa- 
tion she  made  by  her  beauty,  grace,  and  reputed  wealth, 
in  a  hmited  number  of  drawing-rooms  in  a  limited 
number  of  cities,  was  over.  At  first,  indeed,  young 
men  were  presented  to  her  by  (half)  dozens,  wherever 
she  went.  But  of  these,  the  high-horn, — as  she  was 
pleased,  for  want  of  better,  after  the  fashion  of  romantic 
young  ladies  and  a  certain  school  of  writers  of  instructive 
popular  tales,  to  denominate  the  sons  or  grandsons  of 
successful  merchants  and  manufacturers  and  professional 
and  political  men,  and  grandsons  or  great-grandsons  of 
farmers  and  small  tradesmen, — proved  too  often  to  be 
of  the  calibre  of  Messrs.  Bob  Jones  and  Jack  Bobinson, 
cared  more  for  dancing  than  for  talking  in  general,  and 
talking  on  her  favorite  topics  in  particular,  and  stig- 
matized her  as  "  slow^^  "  hlue^'^  and  "  strong-minded,^^ 
While  the  low-horn, — namely,  the  sons  of  farmers  and 
mechanics,  {mud-sills,  in  the  classic  Carolinian  tongue,) 
— who,  having  come  up  from  the  plough  and  work-bench 
to  the  University,  were  slowly  and  surely  working 
their  way  up,  to  be  themselves  successful  professional 
and  political  men, — ^youths  whose  minds  had  been  as 
much  more  thoroughly  trained  than  hers  as  her  man- 
ners had  been  than  theirs, — who  could,  some  of  them 
at  least,  have  fully  appreciated  her  wit  and  fancy  and 
amply  repaid  her  with  their  own  humor  and  sagacity, 


33 

after  tlieir  first  shyness  had  been  charmed  away  by  a 
little  feminine  tact  and  kindness  on  her  part; — all 
these  low-born  youths  were,  for  mere  want  of  the  habit 
of  society,  set  down  by  her  at  once  as  boors  utterly  un- 
worthy of  her  society,  and  repelled  and  frozen  with 
icy  looks  and  monosyllables. 

Having  no  near  relations  living  at  the  South,  except 
an  aunt  ^vhose  home  was  in  Baltimore,  but  whose  hus- 
band's business  carried  him  frequently  to  Paris,  she  had 
never  returned  to  her  native  State  since  she  left  it,  and 
lell  in  with  few  young  planters.  Of  these,  fewer  still 
appeared  to  her  to  be  very  liberally  educated ;  and 
some  were  even  addicted  to  "  commencing  to  lairf  h," 
"  saiHng  07i  boats,"  instead  of  in  them,  and  committing 
other  offences  too  numerous  to  mention  against  the 
idioms  of  what  she  had  been  taught  to  consider  her 
vernacular,  beside  further  embellishing  the  communi- 
cation of  their  ideas  by  speaking  Enghsh  with  what 
may  be  termed  the  Guinea  accent,  and  introducing  from 
time  to  time  certain  startling  guttural  intonations,  evi- 
dently learned  while  the  organs  of  speech  were  still 
pliant,  in  conference  with  sable  masters  and  mistresses 
not  of  the  cultivated  class  of  negroes. 

Then,  again,  even  among  the  small  number  of  per- 
sons whom  she  was  disposed  to  like,  she  found,  to  her 
surprise,  that  not  quite  all  were  ready  to  like  her. 
Some  of  them,  adding  to  their  good  minds  and  man- 
ners good  hearts,  were  much  displeased  with  what  they 
heard,  if  they  did  not  chance  to  see,  of  her  unamiable 
and  nnwarrantable  contempt  for  others,  wkose  feelings 
and  worth  they  respected.  In  a  word,  she  soon  found  her- 
self as  little  popular  out  of  school  as  she  had  been  in 
it,  and  demonstrated  an  important  proposition,  which 
I  here  lay  down  for  the  benefit  of  all  romance-reading 


34  HEKMAN. 

young  friends  of  mine, — may  tliey  be  many,  when,  if 
ever,  my  romance  is  printed, — namely  :  those  who  live 
in  a  world  of  their  own,  can  hardly  ever  get  on  at  all 
well  in  the  world  of  other  people. 

Her  circle  of  possible  sympathizers  narrowed  and  nar- 
rowed wherever  she  went,  until  in  Boston,  in  this  present 
winter  of  18 — ,  the  Arden  family  stood  almost  alone  in 
her  liking  and  in  liking  her ;  but  they  suited  her  so  well 
that,  in  their  company,  she  seemed  and  felt  thoroughly 
amiable,  charmed,  and  charming.  There  were  only 
two  brothers  among  them,  however ;  and  Edward,  the 
oldest,  was  too  indolent  and  epicurean ;  and  Herman, 
the  other,  too  little  imposing,  too  little  stern  and  mys- 
terious, and,  though  two  years  her  senior  in  age,  too 
young  in  all  his  ways  for  her  almost  despaired-of  hero  ; 
and  where  to  look  for  him,  she  still  could  not  tell ;  when, 
in  the  meanwhile,  not  only  had  Herman  Arden  fallen 
in  love  with  her,  which  was  to  have  been  expected, 
and  not  at  all  extraordinary,  but, — without  in  the  least 
dreaming  of  such  a  thing, — such  things  will  happen 
sometimes, — she  had  fallen  in  love  with  Herman 
Arden  ! 

How  such  things  do  happen,  perhaps  the  people  to 
whom  they  happen,  even,'  can  seldom  tell  exactly ;  but 
these  two  people  really  had  some  points  in  common, 
and  seemed  at  least  to  have  many.  Both  were  very 
romantic,  to  begin  with  ;  and  he  perfectly  agreed  with 
her  in  taking  her  superb  physical  beauty  for  the  stamp 
of  equally  rare  spiritual  beauty.  Both  had  earnest  and 
aspiring  natures,  earnestly  yearning  after  what  pre- 
sented itself  to  their  minds  as  the  noblest  and  the  best. 
Though  neither  of  them  had  hitherto  discovered  it, 
however,  they  were  unlike  in  this, — that  while  he  stood 
ready  to  tear  his  way  in  all  directions,  save  one,  through 


35 

his  most  cherished  illusions,  the  moment  he  had  cause 
to  suspect  that  they  were  illusions,  until  he  could  come 
at  the  realities  which  they  veiled,  she  hugged  her  illu- 
sions, and  stood  ready  to  tear,  metaphorically  of  course, 
every  reality,  person  or  thing,  which  came  too  near 
them.  She  loved  the  names  of  patriotism  and  glory 
instead  of  the  things ;  he,  the  names  for  the  sake  of  the 
things.  She  felt,  and  did  not  think ;  he  felt,  but 
thought,  too.  She  esteemed  herself  a  genius  ;  he  was 
pretty  near  being  one,  without  knowing  it.  He  was 
mindful  of  what  he  considered  liis  duty  to  his  God; 
and  this,  and  the  modest  hope  that  he  was  so,  gave  him 
an  inward  purity  and  dignity  of  life.  She  was  mindful 
of  what  she  considered  her  duty  to  herself;  and  this, 
and  the  proud  consciousness  of  it,  gave  her  an  outward 
purity  and  dignity  of  life.  Much  as,  in  her  secret 
heart,  she  loved  admiration, — and  that  was  much  more 
than  she  was  aware  of, — she  could  never  stoop  to  flirt 
nor  to  be  flirted  with.  Unlike  him,  she  could  be  re- 
vengeful but,  like  him,  never  intentionally  unjust. 
She  could  be  arrogant  and  cruel  in  speech,  as  he  never 
was ;  but  her  pouting  lips  knew  no  better  than  his 
own  how  to  frame  a  lie. 

Then,  Herman  and  she  liked  many  of  the  same 
pleasures ;  and  people  who  enjoy  themselves  together 
are  apt  to  like  each  other  ; — a  truism  worth  the  pon- 
dering of  match-makers.  He  was  an  excellent  rider,  and 
always  eagerly  ready  to  escort  her  and  his  sister  on  his 
beautiful  bay.  He  sang  well  in  a  duet,  and  read  aloud 
much  better.  He  read  her  favorite  poems  to  them  as 
they  worked  or  drew,  and  taught  Constance  to  love 
some  of  his,  when  interpreted  by  his  singularly  musical, 
true,  and  spontaneous  intonation,  which  often  seemed, 
as  she  once  told  him,  "  as  if  the  soul  of  the  dead  poet 


36  HEKMAN. 

had  got  into  his  voice."  He  threw  aside  his  Greek 
authors,  to  study  Italian  with  her  and  Clara ;  and, 
thongh  much  iiiore  ignorant  of  the  language  than  they  at 
the  outset,  soon  surprised  them  witli  the  light  which  his 
bright  eyes  could  throw,  at  one  glance,  into  dark  places 
in  the  "  Divina  Commedia^^  which  had  puzzled  them 
for  hours.  There  was  no  commission  too  difficult  or 
too  troublesome  for  him  to  execute  zealously  for  Con- 
stance, at  the  slightest  intimation  from  her  that  she 
would  consent  to  accept  his  services  ;  and  they  were 
always  offered  and  rendered  with  a  sort  of  chivalrous 
courtesy,  which  seemed  to  imply,  that  in  doing  her  will 
he  did  his  own,  and  that  to  honor  ]ier  was  the  highest 
honor  he  could  pay  to  himself. 

Still,  she  could  only  fancy  him  her  page  and  not 
her  knight,  until  once,  after  he  had  been  off  on  a  scien- 
tific expedition  for  a  week  or  two  with  Mr.  Agassiz, 
she  perceived  that  the  page  could  not  be  dispensed 
with,  if  the  knight  was  not  forthcoming ;  that  Her- 
man loved  her  with  all  his  heart,  and  that  she  could 
not  very  well  help  loving  him  in  like  manner.  Since 
it  could  not  be  helped,  therefore,  the  best  thing  to  be 
done  seemed  to  be  to  get  the  page  knighted.  In 
plainer  English,  though  she  had.  now  been  two  years 
out  of  school,  and  the  original  castle  had  been  a  good 
deal  shattered  in  spite  of  her,  by  contact  with  the  hard 
battering-ram  of  fashionable  life,  she  wished  that  the 
ruins  should  be  manned  for  her  by  a  helpmeet,  who 
should  at  least  be  a  statesman  high  in  office ;  and  as 
Herman  was  so  fond  of  her,  and  so  very  clever  and 
obliging,  she  believed  that  she  might  make  him  the 
profitable  servant  of  her  ambition,  supporting  the  com- 
parative weakness  of  his  character  by  the  strength 
of  her  own.      She  understood  that  his  family,  in  all 


THE  knight's  lady.  37 

its  branches,  had  always  belonged  to  that  wing  of  the 
Whig  party  which  belonged  to  Slavery.  She  would 
with  him  return  to  South  Carolina,  where  her  family- 
interest  was  powerful,  and  invest  aU.  the  ready  money 
she  could  raise,  if  necessary,  in  negroes.  Their  votes 
should  in  part  elect  him  to  Congress,"  and  her  beauty 
and  popularity, — for,  to  promote  such  an  object,  she 
would  stoop  for  once  to  court  popularity, — should  do 
the  rest.  Once  in  the  House  of  Representatives,  with 
his  natural  abilities  and  the  stimulus  which  her  com- 
manding energies  should  give  him,  what  should  stop 
him  ?  She  saw,  through  no  very  long  vista  of  proba- 
bilities, herself  presiding  like  a  queen  at  the  "White 
House,  and  him  Commander-in-Cliief  of  the  American 
Army. 

Herman,  also,  had  his  secret  day-dreams,  in  which 
love,  patriotism,  and  glory  figured  largely ;  though  it 
remains  to  be  seen  how  far  they  could  be  made  to  coin- 
cide with  hers.  God  is  the  only  common  end  towards 
which  all  men  and  women  can  press  forward,  side  by 
side,  and  ever  nearer  to  one  another,  in  harmonious, 
converging  lines;  most  other  objects  do  but  lead 
them  asunder,  or  make  them  cross  one  another's 
paths  continually. 

*  Constance  here,  like  some  others,  labors  under  a  slight  misap- 
prehension. Individual  masters  do  not  vote  for  (i.  e.,  against)  their 
individual  slaves.  The  wrong  done  by  hlack  representation  is  whole- 
sale, not  retail.  ' '  Representatives, "  *  *  *  says  the  Constitution,  ' '  shall 
be  apportioned  among  the  several  States,  which  may  be  included 
within  this  Cnion,  according  to  their  respective  numbers,  which  shall 
be  determined  by  adding  to  the  whole  number  of  free  persons,  inclu- 
ding those  bound  to  service  for  a  term  of  yeare,  and  excluding  Indians 
not  taxed,  three-llfths  of  all  other  persons."  Thus  the  few  wbite 
voters  in  a  Slave  State,  in  which  the  majority,  being  slaves,  should  not 
vote  at  all,  might  have  as  many  Representatives  at  Washington  as  the 
many  white  voter-  in  a  Free  S!:ate;  and  such  nominal  Representa- 
tives of  slaves,  being  usually  slaveholders,  uphold  slavery  \  ear  alter 
year,  and  speak  and  vote  down  the  liberties  alike  of  blacks  and  of 
Qon-slaveholding  whites. 


38  HERMAN. 

On  the  night  before  that  of  the  ball,  Herman  sig- 
nalized his  coming  of  age, by  making,  in  an  informal 
public  meeting  professedly  open  to  men  of  all  parties, 
his  maiden  speech.  All  sorts  of  opinions  were  ex- 
pressed about  it,  of  course,  according  to  the  notions 
previously  fixed  in  the  minds  of  the  hearers.  The  rad- 
icals present  stigma,tized  it  as  time-serving ;  the  soi- 
disans  conservatives  as  seditious  ;  but  all  the  judges 
of  oratory,  who  did  not  happen  to  be  too  angry  to  ex- 
ercise their  judgment,  were  agreed  that, — though 
rather  too  good  for  the  occasion, — in  eloquence,  schol- 
arly finish,  and  statesmanlike  information,  it  would  not 
have  been  unworthy  of  William  Pitt  at  the  age  of  the 
speaker.  Furthermore,  Dr.  Lovel,  a  certain  dear  old 
divine,  who  chanced  to  be  among  the  hearers,  and  whose 
very  heart  was  sore  with  the  denunciations  of  one 
party  and  the  sordid  cotton  talk  of  the  other,  stayed  a 
day  the  longer  away  from  his  rural  parsonage,  to  drop 
in  on  Clara,  (with  whom  he  always  ate  his  Sunday  beef 
when  he  preached  in  town,)  and  enchant  her  with  the 
assurance  that,  if  Herman  could  but  indoctrinate  the 
rest  of  the  youths  of  the  country  with  his  spirit  of  en- 
lightened and  self-sacrificing  patriotism,  he  would  do 
as  great  a  work  as  Washington's,  free  the  slaves  and 
masters  at  the  same  time,  and  cement  the  Union  more 
indissolubly  than  ever  with  universal  peace  and  good 
will.  Clara  sent  out  to  Whitney's  immediately  for 
worsteds  and  canvas  to  work  two  pair  of  beautiful  slip- 
pers, one  for  the  praised  and  one  for  the  praiser. 

And  Constance !  Was  not  she  enchanted,  too  ? 
She  was  furious, — 1  beg  her  pardon,  indignant ;— and 
the  little  scene  at  the  ball  was  the  result.  But  then, 
to  do  her  justice,  the  news  first  reached  her  through 
one  of  the  partisan   newspapers, — those  licensed  false 


89 

witnesses  against  their  neighbours  ! — and  it  rang  the 
knell  of  the  Union  and  the  nation  with  a  bell  with 
Herman's  tonorue  in  it. 

All  through  the  next  day, — most  nnlncky  of  Fri- 
days,— he  had  not  once  been  near  her, — for  a  very  good 
reason.  He  was  correcting  and  re-writing  his  speech, 
from  the  copions  notes  which  a  very  rapid  reporter  had 
taken  of  it,  that  it  might  as  soon  as  possible  be  laid 
fairly  and  in  fair  type  before  the  public,  in  the  place 
of  the  incoherent  or  garbled  and  spiteful  extracts  and 
abstracts,  which  the  public  was  now  straining  its  specta- 
cles and  venting  its  wrath  over.  The  very  first  printed 
copy  he  destined  to  be  laid  before  his  lady,  as  the  first 
of  many  laurels  with  which  he  lioped  to  crown  her. 
She  might  disagree  with  his  discourse  at  first  upon  some 
minor  points  ;  he  knew  and  admired  her  independent 
spirit ;  but  she  was  candid  and  generous,  and  could  not 
tail  to  be  pleased  at  finding  in  a  Northern  man  so  cor- 
dial an  interest  in  the  prosperity  of  the  South,  and  at 
finding,  in  any  countryman,  so  hearty  a  zeal  for  the 
promotion  of  the  highest  welfare  of  the  whole  country ; 
and  then,  if  his  performance  was  as  eloquent  and  bril- 
liant as  some  of  his  other  acquaintances  told  him,  how 
very  proud  and  happy  she  would  be !  How  very  elo- 
quent and  brilliant  it  was,  he  for  the  first  time  per- 
ceived, as  he  read ;  for,  as  he  spoke,  the  mighty  spirit 
of  oratory  had  leaped  upon  him,  casting  up  the  riches  of 
his  whole  being  from  its  depths,  and  carrying  away  his 
self-consciousness  as  with  a  whirlwind. 

And  this  man,  so  full  of  promise,  noble  in  beauty, 
loyalty,  enterprise,  courage,  and  heroism  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  word,  who  loved  her  as  no  other  ever  had, 
or  would  or  could  love,  Constance  was  in  the  mean- 
time preparing  to  do  her  best,  or  worst,  to  dishearten, 


40  HERMAN. 

agonize,  and  alienate,  for  what  I  should  be  tempted  to 
call  a  girlish  whim,  were  it  not  that  I  might  thereby 
seem  so  disrespectful  as  to  cast  an  intentional  slur  on 
some  of  the,  so  esteemed,  most  sagacious  men  among 
her  contemporaries  !  Her  hot  temper  prevailing  more 
and  more,  hour  by  hour,  over  the  warm  heart  which 
might  have  pleaded  for  him,  she  condemned  him  in  his 
absence  and  for  his  absence,  which  seemed  to  her  to 
add  contempt  and  contumacy  to  ingratitude  and  trea- 
son ;  and  her  hastily-formed  purpose,  to  discard  him 
at  once  and  forever,  grew  and  grew, — like  the  mam- 
moth snow-balls  which  she  saw  the  little  schoolboys 
making  in  the  gray  storm  before  the  dismal  windows 
of  the  Revere  House, — by  much  revolving. 

At  twilight,  Herman's  task  released  him.  He 
tossed  the  last  scrawled  sheet  to  the  printer's  familiar, 
dressed  with  particular  care,  tied  in  his  most  faultless 
knot  his  prettiest  cravat  of  Clara's  selection,  swallowed 
a  cup  of  tea,  and  strode  up  and  down  from  one  end  of 
the  drawing-rooms  to  the  other,  until  at  last  his  sister 
appeared,  in  her  blue  evening  cloak  and  rigolette^  with 
the  flowers  in  her  hair  peeping  out  between  its  strings 
of  tiny  pearl-like  balls,  as  if  through  snow-flakes  ;  and 
the  tardy  coachman  pulled  the  door-bell  with  a  hard 
jerk,  to  mahe  helieve  it  was  not  the  first  time  he  had 
rung  it,  and  w^hirled  them  off  to  Mrs.  Mydass's. 

There  Herman  had  placed  himself  near  the  hostess, 
watching  the  door  of  entrance,  and  come  forward  to 
meet  Constance,  as  she  appeared  in  it,  with  such  an 
expression  of  joy,  affection,  and  hope  just  dashed  with 
modest  doubt,  as  should  have  made  her  thank  her  God, 
and  humble  herself  before  Him  in  the  presence  of  her 
great  happiness ;  when  she  for  the  first  time  treated 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a  poor  and  awkward  student, — 


41 

i.  e.^  like  a  dog.  Then  following  that  strange  blind 
instinct  of  our  nature,  which  makes  us,  when  evil 
threatens,  greedy  of  the  worst,— which  makes  the 
young  wife  look  up  into  the  face  of  the  messenger  who 
has  come  to  tell  her  that  she  is  a  widow,  and  cry, 
"  Don't  tell  me  he  is  sick  !  say  he's  dead  !"  though  she 
dies  of  the  news, — Herman,  like  Samson,  bowed  him- 
self, and  pulled  his  fate  down  instantly  upon  his  own 
grand  head,  unshorn,  if  crushed.  He  had  offered  her 
his  hand,  and  for  the  first  time,  in  words,  all  the  wealth 
of  his  manhood  and  his  love.  The  offering  was  re- 
jected, as,  under  the  circumstances,  only  an  added 
affront ;  and  just  there,  and  then,  we  found  and  left 
them. 


42  HERMAN. 


CH AFTER    III. 

THE     KNIGHT'S     TRYST. 

*'  I  have  not  slept;  for  that  I  am  to  blame." 

Philip  Van  Artevelde. 

"Oh,  friend,  are  we  indeed  the  sport  of  Fate? 

Was  there  no  clay  wherewith  to  touch  mine  eyes, 
That  they  might  see  thee  in  thy  true  estate, 
Good  with  the  good,  wisest  where  all  were  wise .'"' 

Gail  Hamilton, 

Constance  went  home  to  lier  hotel,  and  sat  up  all 
the  rest  of  the  night  in  her  dressing-gown  and  shawl, 
"preparing  herself"  for  the  morrow.  A  very  poor 
way,  my  dear  little  girls,  of  preparing  yourselves  for 
anything,  unless  by  and  by,  perhaps,  in  some  crisis  of 
life  such  as  sometimes  comes  even  to  creatures  as  gen- 
tle as  you,  and  not  n^ny  years  older, — in  some  great 
perplexity,  or  sorrow,  or  joy,  which  drives  your  sleep 
away, — you  pass  the  hours  of  darkness  in  thanksgiving, 
or  prayer  for  guidance  and  comfort,  and  in  duteous 
consultation  of  God's  word,  after  the  manner  as  I  sup- 
pose of  holy  men  and  women  of  old  time.  ]^ow  a 
vigil  may  be  a  very  good  or  a  very  bad  thing,  according 
as  God  or  Satan  is  one's  fellow-watcher.  If  you  wish 
to  judge  of  the  nature  of  Constance's,  you  shall  have 
the  benefit  of  some  of  lier  meditations.  They  were 
plausible ;  but  so,  sometimes,  is  Satan. — 

At  last,  her  early  longings  were  fulfilled.  Her 
country  did  call  upon  her  for  a  sacrifice.  The  sacrifice 
ehonld  be  rendered,  even  to  the  last  drop  of  her  heart's 


43 

blood,  if  indeed  her  heart  could  ever  bleed  for  a 
recreant  and  traitor.  If  it  could,  it  would  deserve  to 
bleed,  and  to  be  torn  out  and  trampled  upon  bv  her 
own  hands  and  feet.  (A 'rather  difficult  operation  for 
a  person  unskilled  in  anatomy,  and  an  awkward  one 
for  anybody  to  perform  upon  himself.)  She  would 
never  disgrace  her  gallant  forefathers  !  (She  did  not 
know  much  about  them  ;  but  I  have  been  credibly  in- 
formed, by  one  who  did,  that  she  did  them  injustice  ; 
that  they  were  very  sensible,  though  somewhat  prosy 
and  commonplace  old  planters,  who  would  probably, 
if  they  had  not  labored  under  the  double  disadvantage 
of  being  dead  and  being  unaware  of  the  state  of  the 
case,  have  desired  her  to  say  her  jDrayers  and  go  to  bed 
like  a  good  girl,  and  try  to  get  up  wiser.)  She  was 
glad  that  Herman  had  asked  for  an  explanation  !  It 
should  be  such  a  one  as  should  show  him  of  what  a 
prize  he  had  proved  himself  unworthy.  But,  might 
not  she  suffer  afterwards?  Hardly;  and  if  she  did, 
what  was  suffering  in  a  good  cause  ?  Her  self-respect 
and  proper  pride  would  come  effectually  to  her  aid. 
She  had  made  a  mistake, — that  was  all, — in  fancpng  a 
possible  future  resemblance  between  her  ideal  man  and 
Herman,  and  had  only  to  rejoice  that  she  had  discov- 
ered it  before  it  was  too  late,  and  to  return  to  her  old 
allegiance.  She  would  make  up  her  mind  before  he 
came,  what  to  say  and  how  to  say  it  in  a  few  conclu- 
sive words,  which  should  open  no  door  to  discussion. 
!N^o  wily  northern  tongue  should  cozen  her  out  of  her 
principles.  She  would  have  the  matter  over,  and  for- 
get it.  She  thought  of  Jephtha's  daughter,  and  was 
sure  that  she  herself  must  be  very  much  like  her, 
though  she  could  not, — for,  in  spite  of  anger  and  the 
real  regret  and  misgiving  which  she  was  beginning  to 


i4:  HERMAN. 

feel,  though  not  to  acknowledge,  she  was  growing  ex- 
ceedingly sleepy, — at  the  time  remember  precisely  what 
it  was  that  Jephtha's  daughter  did. 

In  the  meanwhile,  she  was  becoming  very  chilly. 
The  wintry  dawn  was  so  long  in  coming,  that  she  be- 
gan to  suspect  a  repetition  of  the  Dark  Day,  or  an 
eclipse  of  the  sun;  and,  when  it  came,  she  looked  so 
pale  and  plain  by  its  murky  gray  light,  and  her  eyes 
were  so  blood-shot  and  swollen,  that  she  was  afraid 
Herman  would  think  she  had  been  crying,  and  she  had 
not ! — at  least  not  much,  and  it  was  only  because  she 
was  tired  and  out  of  spirits,  and  had  no  mother  nor 
anybody  to  care  for  her,  and  felt  sorry  to  lose  the 
friendship  of  Clara  Arden,  who  would  of  course  be  sure 
to  take  Herman's  side,  right  or  wrong ; — sisters  always 
did  so,  and  she  wished,  for  her  part,  she  had  one,  too, 
poor  girl ! — So  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed,  under  an 
eider-down  quilt,  and,  when  her  maid  came,  bade  her 
call  her  again  at  ten ;  slept  two  hours,  rose,  feeling 
if  possible  more  weary,  irritable,  and  wretched  than 
before,  drank  a  cup  of  strong  coiFee,  which,  as  she 
could  eat  nothing  with  it,  merely  added  a  sort  of  uni- 
versal tremor  of  body  and  mind  to  her  previous  dis- 
comfort ;  had  her  thick,  long,  fine  black  hair  exqui- 
sitely dressed  to  the  further  torment  of  her  aching 
head,  and  in  her  elegant  morning-dress  walked  down 
\  stairs,  supporting  herself  by  the  banisters,  to  a  private 
parlor,  which  she  shared  with  her  present  chaperone, 
Mrs.  Courtenay  Yan  Rooselandt  of  'New  York,  and 
which,  as  that  lady  was  dressing  to  make  calls,  she  now 
had  to  herself.  She  sat  down  and  waited  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  Her  head  throbbed  more  and  more.  The 
door-bell  rang. 

"  Hr.  Arden—" 

"  Show  him  in." 


THE    KXIGHT  8    TEYST.  45 

He  was  in  the  room.  She  looked  up  and  rose. 
Each  saw  how  very  pale  the  other  was ;  and  one  was 
Borry.  She  had  intended  to  shorten  the  interview  by 
not  inviting  him  to  sit  down  ;  but  finding  herself  unable 
to  stand,  (lo  !  the  consequences  to  one's  nerves  of  pre- 
paring one's-selfl)  she  was  forced  to  sink  again  into  her 
chair,  and  to  point  to  another.  He  moved  towards  it 
mechanically,  but  only  leaned  upon  the  back  of  it,  and 
stood  looking  into  her  face. — He  wonM  not  begin. — 
Then  she  must. — She  must  collect  her  ideas  ;  but  how 
could  she,  with  her  brain  all  one  swollen  pulsation,  and 
with  anybody  looking  at  her  in  that  way  ?  But  what  splen- 
did eyes  he  had  !  and  how  strangely  manly  he  looked,  for 
once  in  his  life ! — Xo  matter. — As  these  thoughts  passed, 
or  rather  jerked,  through  her  head,  she  put  her  hand  to 
it  involuntarily.  He  started,  and  half  reached  a  bottle 
of  Cologne  water.  She  rejected  it  with  a  gesture,  and 
recollected  her  part :  "  You  understand,  I  trust,  that 
you  are  here  to  receive,  not  a  retractation,  but  an  expla- 
nation merely,  of  what  seemed  to  strike  you  as  so  un- 
accountable last  night." 

He  flushed,  but  bowed,  still  without  speaking. 

"  I  was  surprised,  I  own,  in  my  turn,  to  find  that  it 
could  be  thought  to  require  an  explanation ;  but  no  one 
shall  ever  have  an  excuse  for  saying  that  I  have  forgot- 
ten, in  my  conduct  towards  him,  what  is  due  to  myself 
and  to  a  woman  of  honor.  My  explanation,  since  you 
require  it,  is,  that  I  have  heard  of  your  speech." 

"  From  the  newspapers  ?" 

"  I  rom  the  newspapers." 

He  brightened  instantly  and  sat  down,  drawing,  as 
lie  did  so,  his  chair  an  inch  or  two  nearer  to  her.  She 
receded  in  proportion,  and  slightly  gathered  towards 
her  the  wide  folds  of  her  drapery. 


4:6  HEKMAJN. 

"  I  cannot  wonder,  then,  at  your  displeasure.  I 
must  explain" r 

"  It  was  you  only,  I  think,  Mr.  Arden,  who  desired 
an  explanation ;  and  pardon  me  if  I  say  that  you  have 
had  it,  and  'that  I  am  now  about  to  be  otherwise 
engaged." 

"  And  you  are  determined  not  even  to  hear  what  I 
have  to  say  for  myself?  Oh,  Constance ! — Miss  Aspen- 
wall, — have  I  iDeen  so  utterly  mistaken  ?  Have  I  only 
my  own  presumption  to  thank  for  my  hope  that  at 
some  future  time, — not  by  the  mad  precipitancy  of  last 
night, — for  that  I  can  never  forgive  myself, — but  by 
the  patient  devotion  of  months  and  years,  I  might  win 
— your  affection  ?" 

"  A  common  woman  would  answer,  that  3^ou  had 
only  your  own  presumption  to  thank  for  it,  and  would 
hide,  by  a  shameless  falsehood,  her  shame  at  having 
allowed  her  preference  to  be  won  by  a  person  incapa- 
ble of  rewarding  and  retaining  it.  I  am  not  a  common 
woman  ;  and  I  shall  stoop  to  no  such  meanness.  It  is 
no  shame  to  me,  to  have  been  led  on  to — ahnost — love 
the  man  you  seemed." 

He  started  up  :  "  You  almost  loved !  Then,  no- 
blest, dearest,  sweetest, — love  me!  Love  me,  Con- 
stance ! — O,  Constance,  Constance,  I  don't  know  how 
to  seem !" 

"Excuse  me.  You  seemed,  though  a  Northern 
man,  a  perfectly  liberal  and  unprejudiced  man;  and 
you  are  an  Abolitionist." 

Constance's  love  of  repartee  was  breaking  up  the 
ice  between  them,  almost  as  fast  as  Herman's  love  of 
her.  Pride  and  affection  were  tilting  in  the  scales ; 
and  the  expression  of  delighted  hope,  at  the  instant  in 
his  face  and  voice,  tossed  pride  up  almost  to  the  beam ; 


47 

out  Satan,  having  been  invited  in  to  tlie  conference, 
stayed  without  urging,  and  stood  by  all  the  time,  ready 
at  need  to  put  in  his  foot,  heavy  as  the  Indian  fur- 
dealer  found  the  white  man's  hand. 

"  So  some  of  the  newspapers  say,  I  know,"  answered 
Herman  ;  "  and  so  are  you  an  Orthodox  Christian,  and 
I  too,  I  hope  ;  though  both  of  us  go  to  King's  Chapel, 
and  neither  of  us  to  Park-street  Church  or  the  Old 
South,  ^dth  the  so-called  Orthodox  par  excellence, 
Wliat's  in  a  name  %  I  have  -no  intention,  I  assure  you,  of 
binding  myself  to  do  the  bidding  of  any  political  party ; 
but  this  name  of  Abolitionist  is  a  very  vague  one  and 
may  be  applied  to  a  very  great  variety  of  people.  May 
I  ask  what  you  know  of  tliem  ?" 

"  Quite  as  much  as  I  wish.  I  know  that  they  are  a 
set  of  wild  and  lawless  people,  who  are  ready  to  drown 
their  native  country  in  blood,  in  order  to  take  away 
the  rights  and  property  of  their  neighbours  and  to  undo 
all  that  their  fathers  bled  and  died  to  do, — of  judges 
that  neither  fear  God  nor  regard  man  ;  preachers  who 
preach  sedition,  schism,  and  skepticism  ;  and  conceited 
vixenish  women,  going  out  of  their  sphere  to  meddle 
with  what  they  know  nothing  about,  and  dictate  to  men 
in  politics." 

Constance  was  getting  ujpon  the  stumjp^  which  is 
often,  if  not  usually  in  one  of  her  sex,  equivalent  to 
putting  herself  in  a  false  position.  Herman's  good- 
breeding  could  always  keep  the  corners  of  his  mouth  in 
order ;  but  anything  comical  which  came  in  his  way, 
even  in  his  sadder  moments,  was  invariably  as  flint  to 
steel,  to  his  eyes ;  they  would  sparkle  at  it  without  his 
knowledo-e.  Besides,  Constance's  e\ddent  thawinc^  had 
raised  his  spirits  ;  their  disagreement  was  assuming  the 
air  of  a  very  harmless,  sociable  lovers'  quarrel ;  and  they 


48  HERMAN. 

were  chatting  together  as  if  soon  to  be  again  on  their 
former  terms  or  more.  Constance  saw  in  an  instant  the 
weak  point  in  her  oration ;  and  in  another  mood  she  would 
have  laughed  outright ;  but  Satan  applied  that  innocent 
involuntary  little  sparkle  (why  should  a  spark  not 
sparkle  ?)  to  her  pride  ;  and  it  exploded,  and  blew  him 
up  at  once.  Did  Herman  mean  that  her  adjectives 
"conceited"  and  "vixenish"  applied  to  herself?  (He 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing;  but  it  had  occurred  to 
him,  as  she  spoke,  for  the  first  time,  that  she  might  not 
at  her  age  be  so  accomplished  in  statesmanship  as  she 
was  in  music  and  'belles-lettres^  or  as  she  might  be  by 
and  by,  and  yet  that  she  had  shown  some  little  dispo- 
sition to  regulate  his  public  course.)  Such  abominable 
impertinence!  How  could  she  ever  have  imagined 
that  she  liked  him  ?  With  a  sudden  change  of  voice 
and  aspect  that  terrified  him,  she  exclaimed,  "  It  is 
time  to  put  an  end  to  all  this !" 

"  Good  heavens  !  What  have  I  done  ?" 
"  Must  I  say  it  again  ?"  cried  she,  adroitly  shifting 
her  ground,  and  in  a  manner  moving  the  previous 
question:  "You  have  lifted  your  voice  against  our 
country,  against  the  noblest  part  of  it,  and  the  part  to 
which  I  belong, — and  against  warning  besides ;  for  I 
had  been  more  frank  than  you,  and  been  at  no  pains 
to  disguise  my  utter  hatred  and  scorn  of  Abolitionism !" 

"  I  certainly  knew  that  you  disliked  some  of  the 
extreme  doctrines  of  some  of  those  who  wish  for  the 
abolition  of  Slavery  ;  and  you  knew  that  I.  did.  I  did 
not  know  that  there  was  one  word  in  my  speech,  from 
beginning  to  end,  that  could  give  ofifence  to  a  mag- 
nanimous, patriotic.  Christian  woman;  and  I  must 
entreat.  Miss  Aspenwall,  that  you  will  read  it  before 
you  condemn  it." 


THE  kxight's  tryst.  49 

Entreat  sounded  a  little  like  demand ;  for  he  was 
again  beginning  to  feel  that  she  was  using  him  very 
ill ;  but  how  authority  became  him  !  He  was  really  put- 
ting on  the  look  of  her  ideal  man  ! 

"  And  if  T  should  read,  and  afterwards  con- 
demn it  ?" 

There  was  a  pause.  He  rose,  walked  towards  the 
window,  and  again  towards  her,  and  then  said,  in  deep 
though  smothered  tones,  "Kemembering  the  weakness 
of  human  nature,  I  should  thank  God,  that  it  was 
spoken  before  I  knew  how  much  it  was  to  cost  me." 
He  stopped,  but  presently  went  on  again,  in  a  voice 
which  grew,  though  not  loud,  firmer  and  clearer: 
"Having  been  as  candid  as  jowc^qH^  from  the  hegin- 
ning^''  (this  was  said  with  some  emphasis,  but  not 
rudely,)  ''  I  will  be  so  to  the  end.  I  did  not  know  nor 
believe,  that  I  should  offend  you  by  exercising  in  this 
matter  the  conscientious  independence  of  thought  and 
action,  which  I  should  always  be  the  first  to  respect  in 
you,  or,  if  you  gave  me  the  right,  to  claim  for  you  ;  but 
I  could  not  and  did  not  conceal  from  myself  the  possi- 
bility that  it  might  be  so, — that  in  these  unhappy  days 
of  strife,  prejudice,  and  slander,  your  judgment  might 
be  perverted,  though  your  heart  never, — and  through 
your  j  iidgment  my  heart.  Therefore  I  determined  to 
leap  in  the  dark,  and  put  my  loyalty  to  my  God,  my 
country,  and  my  kind,  at  once  beyond  the  reach  of  any 
tampering  with  my  self-interest ;  and  thus,  what  may 
have  looked  to  you  like  indifference  to  your  disappro- 
bation, was  in  reality  an  excessive, — you  may  think  a 
very  cowardly  and  contemptible, — dread  of  it.  I 
should  be  a  suitor  utterly  unworthy  of  you,  and 
despised  by  you  in  the  end,  if  I  were  capable  of  giving 
up  my  independence  and  manhood  to  any  human 
3 


50  HERMAN. 

being.  If  I  gave  them  up  to  any, man  or  woman,  it 
should  be  to  you.  It  shall  be  to  no  one.  I  will  hold 
them  fast, — so  help  me  God ! — as  sacred  trusts, — sacred 
to  humanity  and  religion." 

"  Religion  says,  '  Fear  God ;  honor  the  king.'  " 

"  Miss  Aspenwall,  here  is  no  king  !  O  how  much 
those  will  have  to  answer  for,  who  bewilder  noble,  art- 
less, unsuspecting  minds  like  yours,  witli  such  wretched 
sophistries  and  perversions  ! — What  did  our  forefathers 
say  to  the  Tory  application  of  that  doctrine,  when  it 
ran  counter  to  their  liberties  ?" 

"  '  Our  country,  right  or  wrong,'  I  suppose,  as  every 
patriot  must." 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  could  scarcely  believe  that 
he  heard  her  aright ;  and  she  colored,  as  the  girl  in  the 
fairy  story  might  have  when  her  lips  had  dropped  a 
toad,  not  merely  for  shame  at  its  ugliness  but  for  anger 
with  the  person  who  pointed  it  out  to  her. 

"  And  you  think,"  said  he,  "  that  we  can  serve  our 
country  by  helping  her  to  call  down  the  judgments  of 
God  upon  herself? — by  fostering  and  promoting  her 
iniquities  ?" 

"  I  am  no  metaphysician,  Mr.  Arden,  to  split  such 
hairs  with  you.  Let  the  subtle  ^orth  argue  ;  but  the 
South  can  act,  and  repudiate,  as  I  do,  a  Union  which 
can  only  humble  and  degrade  her." 

"  Mr.  Otis,  ma'am." 

"  Show  him  in." 

"  Is  this  final «" 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Arden.  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Otis?" 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAIT  GALLEKY.  51 


CHAPTER   ir. 

*THE  FAMILY  PORTRAIT  GALLERY. 

"Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this." 

Shakspeaee. 

* '  Le present  a  pour  racine  le  passe." 

Emile  Soctestre. 

Late  on  Sunday  afternoon,  Edward  and  Clara 
Arden  sat  in  their  dining-room,  at  the  opposite 
ends  of  the  table, — with  the  finest  engravings  from 
Landseer  and  his  compeers  over  their  heads,  and 
between  them,  in  two  embossed  silver  dishes,  a 
heap  of  Brown  -  Benrr^es,  and  another  of  clustering 
Alexandria  -  Muscats  and  Black  -  Hamburgs  brood- 
ing on  their  own  green  leaves, — and  basked  in  the 
light  of  each  other's  countenances,  and  of  their  cheer- 
ful soft-coal  fire.  Leaning  her  smooth  cheek  on  three 
or  four  fingers,  which,  like  marble  piers,  parted  a  flood 
of  golden,  glossy,  flossy  curls,  she  was  looking  into 
dream-land ;  and  gazing  at  her, — robed  in  the  rich 
purple  silk,  which  he  had  chosen  for  her  because  it 
became  her  Monde  beauty  so  well,  with  the  gossamer 
lace  that  fell  over  it  about  her  white  rounded  arms  and 
throat,  fine  and  frosty  as  if  the  fairies  had  caught  her  in 
some  such  trance,  and  woven  it  around  her  out  of 
rime, — gazing  at  her  so,  through  the  soft  blue  etherial 
smoke-wreaths  of  his  cigar,  he  could  have  fancied  that 
he  was  looking  into  di'eam-land  too,  and  beholding  as 
fair,  sweet,  and  stately  a  presence  as  the  luckiest  of 
poets  could  find  there,  besides.     It  was  Clara's  wont 


:an  -n»  JO  '' 


b'Z  HERMAN. 

to  be  fair,  and  sweet,  and  stately;  but  on  a  Sunday 
evening,  he  often  thought  tliat  there  was  a  peculiar 
indefinable  charm  about  her,  even  beyond  that  which 
she  always  had  for  him, — a  tinge  of  more  supernal 
sentiment,  a  certain  odor  of  the  incense  of  the  sanc- 
tuary still  lingering  about  her  as  it  were, — which  made 
her  from  an  angelic  woman  a  womanly  angel. 

Perhaps  it  was  somewhat  egotistical  in  him  to  ad- 
mire her  so  much ;  for  they  were  as  much  alike  as  a 
brother  and  sister,  eminent  respectively  for  manly 
and  maidenly  beauty,  can  well  be, — as  Apollo  and 
Diana ; — Herman  said,  "  no  offence  to  Edward, — as 
body  and  soul ;"  it  had  been  one  of  the  innumerable 
whims  of  his  childhood  to  call  her,  after  he  had  got  a 
smattering  of  Greek,  "  Edward's  Psyche ;"  and  the 
pretty  pet  name  of  Psyche  had  clnng  to  her  to  this 
time. — Both  of  them  had  the  same  generous  and  regal 
beauty  of  form  and  harmonious  and  regular  cast  of 
face, — just  not  quite  Grecian  enough  to  make  Ameri- 
can Nature  seem  a  plagiarist, — and  the  same  remarka- 
bly graceful  and  agreeable  play  of  features,  especially 
of  the  lips,  which,  in  speaking  or  smiling,  gave  glimpses 
of  teeth  that  might  have  moved  a  dentist  to  rapture 
or  despair.  They  were  not  quite  Sabastian  and  Yiola, 
however  ;  for  he  was  three  years  the  oldest,  and  seven 
inches  the  tallest  and  six  the  stoutest,  and  his  eyes  were 
of  a  less  deep  dark  violet  tlian  hers.  Her  cheeks  were 
usually  white,  moreover,  and  his  ruddy,  often  a  little 
tanned,  and,  further,  a  good  deal  obscured  by  a  mag- 
nificent moustache  and  beard  of  rich  auburn  ;  while  the 
floating  golden  sunset-cloud  of  Clara's  tresses  served 
alternately  as  a  veil  and  a  setting  for  her  lovely  counte- 
nance. They  make  so  calm  and  pleasing  a  picture  as 
they  sit  there  in  my  mind's  eye  together,  that  I  cannot 
bear  to  disturb  them  vet.     Let  us  therefore  seize  this 


THE  fa:,itly   PoRTEAIT-GALLEKY.  58 

opportunity  to  inquire  a  litttle  into  their  antecedent. 
Yet  of  their  and  of  mv  knight's  forefathers,  I  shall  say 
nothing.  Reasoning  from  analogy,  I  suppose  that  he 
must  have  had  some.  But,  (though  such  are, when  as- 
certained or  even  merely  suspected,  whether  good,  bad, 
or  indiiFerent, — though  often  far  from  estimable  or 
agreeable  in  their  time  and,  individually,  of  no  manner 
of  use  to  anybody  now, — a  matter  of  most  excessive  and 
mysterious  gratification  to  their  descendants,)  they  are 
apt  to  be  the  greatest  of  bores  to  the  neighbours  of  the 
latter.  Moreover,  they  are  wont  to  be  attended  with 
the  further  disadvantage  of  inducing  the  latter  to  in- 
flict upon  their  helpless  offspring,  while  too  young  and 
inexperienced  to  resist,  most  frightful  catalogues  of 
Gothic  and  Yandalic  appellations,  thereby  visiting 
upon  them  the  euphonic  sins  of  their  fathers  to  the 
thirteenth  and  fourteenth  generation.  Besides,  the 
Ardens,  father  and  oldest  son  at  least,  were  too  fully 
satisfied  with  the  present  standing  of  their  family  to 
trouble  themselves  with  many  investigations  into  its 
past.  The  former  might  perhaps,  by  hard  labor  and 
antiquarian  research,  have  convinced  himself  that  his 
ancestral  tree  first  sprang  in  the  ancient  forest  of  Ar- 
den,  and  that  he  could,  with  an  unquestionable  right  to 
do  so,  make  a  melancholy  Jaques  of  one  of  his  sons, 
and  enjoy  the  peculiar  privilege  of  calling  his  daughter, 
Celia  Eosalind  Audrey  Phebe.  But  such  was  his  re- 
publican arrogance  that,  if  he  had  had  any  mind  to  call 
her  so,  then  he  would  have  called  her  so  as  fast  as  he 
could  say  over  the  words  to  the  christening  clergyman, 
and  the  clergyman  could  learn  to  say  tliem  after  him, 
and  would  never  once  have  thought  to  enquire  whether 
he  had  any  right  to  call  her  so  or  not.  One  cannot 
see  that  she  or  he  lost  much  by  his  omitting  to  do  &o, 
either  with  or  without  a  right.     At  any  rate  he  left  the 


64  HEKMAN. 

veracious  historian,  i.  e.  myself,  without  the  slightest 
foundation  whereon  to  construct  a  pedigree. 

I  regret  it  the  less, — not  only  on  account  of  the  dis- 
advantages already  enumerated  attendant  upon  the 
possession  of  it,  but — on  account  of  a  disadvantage  still 
greater,  namely :  the  possession  of  a  pedigree  often 
tends  to  foster  the  soul -degrading  sin  of  pride  ;  and  the 
quality  of  pride  would  appear  to  be  so  altogether  con- 
trary to  the  prejudices  of  the  angels, — to  the  public 
opinion  of  that  good  society  into  which  we  hope  to  be 
introduced,  most  of  us,  some  time  in  the  course  of  the 
current  century,— that  indulgence  therein  threatens  to 
lower  our  permanent  and  eternal  rank  very  seriously. 
Perhaps  if  some  of  us  could  see  the  present  status  to 
which  the  arrogance  and  selfishness  of  some  of  those 
vaunted  ancestors,  whose  example  makes  arrogance  and 
selfishness  appear  to  us  weaknesses  so  amiable,  have  re- 
duced them,  we  should  make  less  account  than  we  now 
do  of  our  relationship  to  them,  and  rather  prefer  to 
hush  it  up.  No  !  Let  us  search  our  family  records 
chiefly  to  find,  if  we  can,  some  one  saintly  man  or  wo- 
man,— no  matter  how  hard-worked, — no  matter  how 
poor,  and  little  known  on  earth, — whose  deeds  here  five, 
fifty,  or  a  hundred  years  ago  were  his  or  her  title-deeds 
to  bear  the  title  of  lord  or  lady  high-seraph  now  at  the 
court  of  the  King  of  kings.  If  we  can  find  one  such, 
let  us  thank  God  that  the  blood  of  that  saint,  however 
ignoble  here  in  the  estimation  of  his  inferiors,  flows  in 
our  veins ;  let  us  yield  to  its  motions,  attune  our  hearts 
to  its  workings,  and  with  a  hallowed  ambition  strive  so 
to  walk  like  him  in  his  Master's  steps  in  humility  and 
self-devotion,  that  he  may  gladly  condescend  hereafter 
to  come  forward  and  claim  kindred  with  us  from  among 
the  shining  rows  and  ranks  of  Heaven's  nobility. 


THE    FAMILY    POETRAIT-GALLERY.  5o 

The  married  life  of  the  deceased  Ar den  perevr as  al- 
most as  episodical  as  that  of  Blue-Beard.  His  first 
wife,  Kitty,  died  in  a  couple  of  years  after  their  mar- 
riage, leaving  behind  her  his  oldest  daughter,  Catherine, 
who  was  brought  up  in  the  country  by  her  maternal 
aunts,  and  with  whom  we  are  likely  to  have  little  to 
do.  She  had,  at  the  time  when  our  story  begins, 
been  for  some  years  the  respected  partner  of  Jona- 
than A.  Flint,  a  broker,  a  thrifty,  busy,  earthy, 
ant-like  kind  of  a  man,  with  warts  on  his  chin 
and  spectacles  on  his  nose.  Like  a  poor  wild  vine 
rooted  at  the  foot  of  a  dwarf-oak,  she  climbed  towards 
heaven  as  far  as  she  could  without  leaving  him  behind, 
and  a  little  further,  and  stretched  up  her  groping,  un- 
supported hands  towards  it,  for  them  both,  and  tried  to 
be  good  as  well  as  she  knew  how,  and  succeeded  pretty 
well,  too,  in  a  certain  weakly  way. 

The  second  wife,  Alice,  whom  Mr.  Arden  espoused 
at  the  end  of  the  next  two  years,  was  a  daughter  of  a 
Governor  of  one  of  the  Western  States.  The  discon- 
solate widower  fell  in  with  her  at  Washington,  whither 
he  went  to  recruit  his  spirits  and  represent  the  com- 
mercial interests  of  "  our  beloved  Massachusetts "  in 
Congress.  She  was  a  rare  creature,  who,  after  absorb- 
ing the  sweet  influences  of  woodland,  hill,  and  river, 
and  developing  the  perfect  physical  organization,which 
she  afterwards  bequeathed  as  an  invaluable  legacy  to 
Edward  and  Clara,  in  long  rambles  over  her  father's 
large  farm,  had  accompanied  his  ex-Excellency,  when 
he  was  sent  to  the  National  Senate ;  and,  among  the 
strange  medley  of  people  of  all  kinds  and  countries, 
who  throng  that  human  menagerie  and  epitome  of  the 
world,  the  White  House,  she  had  rubbed  off  any  re- 
mains of  rusticity  or  provincialism  that  might  still  have 


66  ♦  HEKMiU^. 

clung  to  her,  without  losing  any  of  the  gracious,  frank 
kindliness  or  gentle  dignity,  which  had  grown  up  with 
her  while  she  assisted  her  mother  to  superintend  her 
rural  home,  or  to  do  the  honors  of  the  "  Gubernatorial 
Mansion  "  in  the  city.  She  might  have  helped  to  con- 
fer upon  her  little  boy  and  girl  other  gifts  and  graces 
besides  her  good  health,  with  its  natural  accompani- 
ments of  good  spirits,  looks,  and  temper ;  but,  as  she 
was  hurrying  back  from  her  father's  death-bed,  to  find 
consolation  for  her  first  sorrow  in  their  rosy  kisses  and 
chubby  embraces,  she  was  killed,  or  murdered, — call  it 
which  you  will, — cut  off  by  a  violent  and  agonizing 
death  in  her  benign  and  glorious  prime,  by  one  of 
those  accidents  in  our  public  conveyances  which  slay  so 
many  of  our  countrymen.  She  was  dragged  out 
breathing,  a  ruin  from  the  ruins,  and  lived  long 
enough  to  see  herself  a  mangled  cripple,  and  to  try  to 
press  her  husband's  hand,  but,  happily,  lived  no 
longer. 

The  young  stranger  had  already,  in  her  brief  resi- 
dence among  his  acquaintances,  so  endeared  herself 
to  them,  that  all  State  Street,  Beacon  Street,  Park, 
Chestnut,  and  Mount  Yernon  Streets,  seemed  to  ring 
with  one  outcry  of  horror,  grief,  and  indignation.  Mr. 
Arden's  nerves  were  shaken  by  the  shock  to  such  a  de- 
gree, that  he  was  incapable  for  months  of  thought  or 
action  ;  but  some  of  his  friends  prosecuted  the  company 
of  the  fatal  railroad,  in  his  name.  The  grossest  care- 
lessness was  proved  on  the  part  of  an  ignorant  and 
stupid  underling,  who  had^been  employed,  apparently, 
not  because  he  was  known  to  be  capable,  but  because 
he  was  supposed  to  be  cheap.  The  company  were  made 
to  pay  a  certain  price  (which  they  were  rich  enough  to 
atford  to  do  pretty  easily,  out  of  their  past  and  future 


THE  fa:\iily  portrait-gallery.  57 

economies  in  the  wits  and  wages  of  their  servants)  for 
this  wife  and  mother,  quite  as  if  she  had  been  a  negress. 
It  was  the*price  of  her  blood,  and  her  husband  loathed 
it.  He  took  it,  notwithstanding,  in  order  to  make, 
so  far  as  he  could,  a  wholesome  example  of  her  de- 
stroyers ;  and,  thinking  of  his  own  little  bereaved  ones, 
he  endowed  with  it  an  asylum  for  orphans. 

Mrs.  Arden,  the  third,  was  a  pretty,  sensitive,  tear- 
ful little  devotee,  who  went  almost  directly  from  her 
sick-room  in  her  father's  house  to  her  sick-room  in  her 
husband's.  Morbidly  and  narrowly  conscientious,  in 
her  fears  lest  she  had  done  or  should  do  wrong,  she 
seemed  to  forget  that  she  could  be  wrong  simply  in  not 
doing.  Especially,  she  forgot  that  most  important 
general  order  to  the  church  militant  on  this  anxious 
earth,  "  Rejoice  alway  ;  and  again  I  say  unto  you,  re- 
joice !"  Thus  her  heavenward  march,  wanting  the 
heavenly  music  ot  gladness  and  hope  to  inspirit  it  and 
to  allure  others  to  join  it,  lagged  sadly,  became  a 
crawl,  and  would  have  been  an  utterly  solitary  one 
had  not  her  little  Herman,  her  only  and  her  husband's 
youngest  child,  come  to  put  his  tiny,  puny  hand  in 
hers  and  move  beside  her  through  the  latter  years 
of  her  short  and  sorrowful  pilgriniage.  He  was  her 
constant  companion  in  her  hushed  and  darkened  cham- 
ber, and,  sitting  on  his  little  stool,  as  it  were  in  the 
shadow  of  death,  never  making  "  a  noise  to  disturb 
poor  mamma,"  and  feeding  on  broths  and  jellies, 
looked  as  pale,  as  unearthly,  and  almost  as  thin,  as  her- 
self, so  as  to  justify,  in  the  opinion  of  the  few  visiters 
whom  she  at  long  intervals  admitted,  her  own  belief 
that  he  was  doomed  very  soon  to  precede  or  follow  her 
to  the  other  world. 

On  the  other  hand,  however,  Sally  Dalley,  (a  poor 
3^ 


58  HERMAN. 

neighbour  of  the  second  Mrs.  Arden,  at  the  "West,  who, 
having  been  befriended  by  that  hidy  in  her  youth,  had 
thought  herself  incredibly  favored  in  being  permitted, 
when  her  rich  husband  came  to  carry  her  off  to  !New 
England,  to  follow  her  fortunes  as  a  sort  of  female  ver- 
satile fac-totum^  and  was  at  that  time  doing  duty  as 
nursery-maid  to  her  orphans)  ejected  over  the  fast- dis- 
appearing hedge  of  her  teeth  the  opinion,  "O'r'  massy  ! 
there  wa'n't  nothin'  under  the  sun  ailed  the  child, — 
nothin'  on  earth  but  mewin'  up  an'  coddlin'.  Land ! 
how'd  Ed'ard  an'  Clary  look  in  one  week's  time, 
d'ye  s'pose,  if  they  was  kept  shut  up  in  the  dark,  an' 
couldn't  git  no  bread  an'  milk  an'  baked  apples,  nor 
beef-steak,  an'  mutton-chops,  an'  roast  puttaturs,  nor 
nothin'  but  blue-monge,  an'  slops,  an'  so  on? — nor 
couldn't  git  out  to  the  Mall,  to  roll  their  hoops,  an'  run, 
an'  romp,  an'  holler  ?  I  declare,  I  tell  'em  sometimes 
it  seems  a'most  as  if  they'd  take  my  very  ears  off. 
I  beared  a  learn 'd  man  say  once,  we'd  all  got  drums  in 
our  ears.  I  don't  know  as  we  have,  nor  I  don't  know 
as  we  haint ;  but  I  know  this,  if  I  don't  know  nothin' 
else, — if  my  ears  is  drums,  them  'ere  childern's  tongues 
is  the  drum-sticks.  But,  la !  I  always  put  'em  to  bed 
the  second  the  nursery-clock  strikes  seven  ; — an'  I  keep 
it  a  little  fast,  'cause  it's  best  to  be  punctooal ; — an'  then 
there's  peace  till  six  in  the  mornin' ;  an'  I  tell  'em,  if 
they'll  only  be  good  child ern  an'  love  each  another, 
an'  '  let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite '  like  '  birds  in 
their  little  nests,'  I  can  stand  a  sight  o'  good-natur'd 
noise." 

"  Sick  1"  Sally  was  once  heard  to  say,  (and  it  would 
have  cost  her  her  place  but  for  Mr.  Arden's  tender 
memory  of  her  faithfulness  to  his  dead  Alice  and  her 
little  ones,)  to  another  guardian  of  youth,  in  answer  to 


THE    FAMILY    POETRAIT-GALLEET.  59 

some  kind  inquiries  about  the  present  incumbent,  or  re- 
cumbent, "  I  should  think  she  might  be  I — sick  o'  doin' 
nothin' !  I  reckon  if  she'd  jump  out  of  her  bed  and 
make  it  up  for  herself,  as  Miss  Arden, — my  Miss  Ar- 
den,  I  would  say, — would,  when  we  was  short  o'  help, 
'twould  do  more  good  to  her  dyspepsy  than  layin'  in  it 
all  day.  I  wish  I  could  have  the  shakin'  up  of  her 
feathers  once, — with  her  in  'em  !" 

But  Sally's  opinions  on  this  point  were  not  entitled 
to  so  much  consideration  as,  from  her  general  sagacity 
and  good  penetration,  they  would  have  been  if  they  had 
been  less  tinged  with  jealousy  of  her  mistress, — I  beg 
Sally's  pardon, — her  mistress's  successor.  Yet,  though 
she  indulged  herself  in  the  luxury  of  this  amiable  feeling, 
as  I  regret  to  state  that  she  did  also  in  that  of  snuiF,  it  is 
due  to  her  to  add,  that  she  secreted  both  with  equally 
conscientious  care  from  her  charges.  Hurtful  indul- 
gences are  commonly  thought  lit  for  those  only  who 
have  arrived  at  years  of  discretion.  We  may  allow 
them  to  ourselves  ;  but  we  must  keep  them  from  the 
young.  Well,  perhaps  there  is  some  philosophy  in  it, 
after  all.  Keep  the  spring  of  life  clear,  and  its  after- 
current may  be  so.  Taint  the  one,  and  the  other 
scarcely  can  be  purified  save  by  a  miracle  of  renewing 
grace. 

Sally's  excuse  was, — not  for  the  snuff,  which  was 
wholly  without  palliation,  but  for  the  harshness  of  her 
judgment  of  the  poor  inoffensive  invalid, — that  she 
took  very  little  notice  of  her  (Sally's)  children.  Ed- 
ward and  Clara  were  admitted  to  their  new  mamma's 
chamber,  to  get  a  kiss  and  a  bunch  of  grapes  or  an 
orange,  usually  once  a  day ;  but  that  was  all  that  she 
had  to  do  with  them.  Their  father,  for  his  part,  was 
too  busy  in  making  money  for  them,  to  learn  how  to 


60  HEliMAN. 

play  or  talk  with  them,  or  even  to  find  out  that  he 
owed  them  any  further  parental  duties  except  to  keep 
them  at  the  best  schools,  which  he  took  pains  to  do. 
Beyond  this  and  a  remarkable  absence  of  natural  de- 
pravity in  their  dispositions,  there  appeared  to  be  no- 
thing earthly  to  guard  them  against  the  ordinary  perils 
of  childhood  and  youth,  as  they  outgrew  the  constant 
companionship  aud  the  authority  of  "Nursey."  Mrs. 
Arden,  whether  her  illness  had  been  originally  a  mala- 
die  imaginaire^  and  since  aggravated  by  self-indulgence, 
or  not,  became  really  too  ill  to  do  all  that  her  prede- 
cessor would  have  •  done  for  tliem,  and  was  too  timid, 
procrastinating,  and  unenterprising,  to  undertake  even 
as  much  as  was  in  her  power.  A  step-mother  as  she 
was,  she  said,  how  could  she  hope  for  the  charitable 
construction  of  her  neighbours  or  even  be  sure  of  her 
own  motives,  if  she  attempted  to  assume  the  responsi- 
bility of  managing  the  children  of  another  ?  Perhaps 
she  should  be  stronger  next  year ;  but  at  present  she 
felt  that  her  very  life  depended  upon  rest  and  quiet, 
and  her  first  duty  was  to  her  own  son ;  so  that  she  did 
not  see  that  she  could  do  anything  for  the  dear  little 
things,  better  than  to  intrust  them  a  little  longer  to  the 
care  of  the  faithful  though  very  peculiar  servant  whom 
their  own  mother  had  chosen  for  them.  Sally  would 
be  very  likely  to  leave  them  at  once,  if  her  manage- 
ment of  them  was  interfered  with  ;  and  it  really  seemed 
to  agree  with  their  rugged  constitutions,  though  it 
would  certainly  have  been  death  to  Herman. 

To  the  suggestions  of  more  persuasive  tongues  than 
Sally's,which  reached  her  from  time  to  time  with  regard  to 
him,  she  opposed  a  mild  but  unconquerable  vis  inertioi, 
8he  wished  that  she  was  able  to  take  him  out  more. 
She  never  left  him  behind  when  she  was  well  enough 


THE    FA^JILY    POKTKAIT-GALLEKY.  61 

to  drive ;  and  slie  hoped  to  let  him  go  out  to  play  a3 
Boon  as  he  was  a  little  stronger ;  but  he  was  so  fragile 
and  sensitive,  and  the  other  boys  were  so  apt  to  be 
rough ;  or  he  was  a  very  dehcate  child,  and  as  he 
had  been  confined  to  the  house  a  good  deal  by  colds  in 
the  winter,  she  did  not  think  she  could  with  prudence 
send  him  out  regularly,  until  the  spring  was  far  ad- 
vanced and  the  danger  of  east  winds  coming  up  was 
over  ;  or  now  in  June,  the  mornings  and  evenings 
were  so  chilly  and  the  sun  so  powerful  at  noon,  that 
there  seemed  to  be  no  time  fit  for  him  to  exercise  in 
out-of-doors  ;  or  he  had  been  so  completely  prostrated 
by  the  heat  even  when  kept  within-doors  with  every 
precaution,  that  he  could  scarcely  be  in  a  state  to  walk 
out  before  the  autumn  ;  or,  if  the  climate  of  this  insa- 
lubrious planet  was  for  once,  by  some  rare  chance,  well 
adapted  to  the  needs  of  its  inhabitants,  she  missed 
him  so  dreadfully  while  he  was  out,  and  was  so  afraid 
that  he  might  be  run  over  by  the  horses  or  fall  into 
the  water,  or  that  he  might  get  into  bad  company ;  and 
he  was  so  pure  and  innocent  now,  that  she  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  it ! 

Clara  and  Edward,  to  be  sure, — who,  envying  his 
sick-room  privileges  and  privations  alike,  that  is,  not 
at  all,  regarded  him  with  the  greatest  admiration, 
interest,  and  pity,  as  an  unnatural  curiosity  of  wonder- 
ful beaiity,  intellect,  and  fragility, — were  always  trying 
to  get  him  into  their  possession  for  an  hour  or  an  after- 
noon, to  ride  on  a  sled,  slide,  play  ball,  or  walk  with 
them ;  and  they,  in  the  meanwhile,  thanks  to  a  good 
Providence,  partly,  perhaps,  to  their  good,  dead  mo- 
ther,— who  can  tell? — (no  thanks,  certainly,  to  their 
living  one,)  were  growing  up  to  be  a  very  well-behaved 
and  well-informed  lad  and  lass,  and  by  rare  good  for- 


62  HERMAIT. 

tune  or  good  taste,  affected  no  associates  who  were  not 
of  the  same  stamp.  They  would  have  held  over  their 
little  half-brother  the  kindest  and  most  watchful  pro- 
tection. But  Mrs.  Arden's  nerves,  or  want  of  nerve, 
got  the  better  of  her  more  and  more.  She  could  not 
let  Herman  go  ;  or,  if  she  did,  she  cried  till  he  came 
back.  After  the  little  fellow  found  that  out,  he  could 
scarcely  be  induced  to  leave  her  side  again.  Clara 
might  creep  behind  the  chamber  door,  and  peep 
through  the  crack,  and  beckon  as  much  as  she  pleased. 
lie  was  sorry,  but  steadfast. 

"  Oh,  Psyche,  what  a  beautiful  dress !  Come  into 
the  dressing-room,  and  let  me  see  you  in  the  light. 
How  bright  you  are  !  see ;  I  have  to  put  up  my  hand 
over  my  eyes.  You  are  all  like  a  rainbow ;  and  your 
shining  head  is  the  sun  ! — 'No,  beauty,  I  can't  go. 
Mamma  isn't  so  well;  and  if  she  wakes  up,  and  finds 
I'm  not  here,  she'll  tremble  all  over  so,  you  don't 
know.  But  when  you  get  back,  just  come  up  to  the 
door,  and  whisper  '  Herman'  very  softly,  and  then  I'll 
ask  leave,  and  slip  down  stairs  with  you,  and  sit  on 
your  knee ;  and  you  can  tell  me  all  about  what  you 
saw,  and  the  Common,  and  the  Frog  Pond,  and  the  dear 
little  ships,  and  set  me  some  more  sums,  on  soft  paper, — 
couldn't  you? — that  won't  crackle,  because  mamma 
hears  the  pencil  on  my  slate." 

Clara  was  not  very  fond  of  her  books,  but  she  was 
of  her  teacher,  and  of  some  of  her  schoolmates,  who  were 
studious  girls ;  and  her  attachment  to  them  carried  her 
on  with  them ;  so  that  she  was  able  to  give  the  little 
prisoner  all  the  aid  he  wanted  in  his  English  studies; 
and  before  he  had  outgrown  her  knee  and  her  lessons, 
he  was  readily  promoted  to  Edward's.  Study  and 
reading  were  an  unspeakable  relief  to  the  monotony  of 


THE    FAMILY    POETEA 11 -GALLERY.  G3 

his  strange  and  solitary  little  life ;  and  it  was  a  pretty 
and  a  singular  sight  to  see  his  tiny  figure  lying  at 
length  on  the  carpet  within  the  window  curtains, 
enclosed  in  a  sort  of  trench  of  books  with  a  ray  of 
light,  through  the  shutters  carefully  parted  just  above 
his  lifted  head,  sliding  down  over  his  curls  to  fall  on 
the  Greek  or  Latin  page  before  him.  He  loved  to 
read  Shakspeare,  Milton,  and  Scott,  aloud  to  his  mo- 
ther, when  she  was  well  enough  to  hear  him.  Whether 
she  was  well  or  ill,  she  heard  him  read  some  selected 
passage  from  the  Bible  daily  ;  and,  as  the  bones  of  some 
birds  are  dyed  by  madder  mingled  with  their  food,  so 
his  very  inmost  frame  of  mind  seemed  to  take  a 
heavenly  hue  from  its  heavenly  nourishment.  The 
seed  was  not  merely  scattered,  but  planted.  He  not 
only  read  the  Gospel,  but  believed,  and  took  it  all  quite 
in  earnest.  Was  it  childish  in  him  ?  He  was  but  a 
child ;  and  "  of  such  are  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  He 
was  not  fond  of  exhibiting  himself  to  strangers  as  a 
prodigy  of  piety,  or,  indeed,  of  any  kind;  but  when  he 
was  quite  alone  with  his  mother  or  Clara,  long  before 
the  Greek  days  and  when  he  was  still  almost  a  baby, 
he  would  both  hear,  and  ask  questions  which  were  not 
always  easy  to  answer,  on  every-day  principles. 

"  But,  mamma,  why  don't  we  and  papa  go  about 
and  do  good,  too? — ^We  could  go  in  the  coach." — 

^'  Poor  mamma  is  too  weak  and  sick,  darling  ;  and 
papa  is  busy ;  and  Herman  is  only  a  little  child  ;  but 
by  and  by,  if  he  lives  to  grow  up,  he  must  try  to  be  as 
much  like  the  Saviour  as  a  mere  man  can  be  ;  and  now 
he  shall  have  a  dollar-bill  to  give  papa  to  put  in  the 
contribution-box,  next  Sunday,  for  the  poor  people." 

"  Xo,  thank  you,  dear  mamma,  you  shall  give  that 
yourself;  but  1  think  I  had  better  let  papa  put  in  my 


64  HERMAN. 

dear  little  gold  one  lor  iiie,  that  Neddy  gave  me  to  buy 
a  rose-busli ;  because  it  would  be  more  like  the  poor 
widow, — wouldn't  it? — and  so  the  Saviour  might  like 
it  better  than  my  giving  him  your  money.  Pie's  rich 
enough  already,  you  know,  because  he  is  God's  son  ; 
and  his  Father  has  got  all  the  silver  in  the  stars^  and 
gold  in  the  moon,  and  all  the  diamonds  and  rubies 
down  in  the  black  mines  underground  in  my  story- 
book, and  all  the  pearls  and  treasures  down  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  greatjhigh  gurgling  sea.  But  he  only  wants 
to  see  whether  we  care  more  about  him  than  we  do 
about  keeping  anything  else  we've  got ;  and  if  we'  do, 
he'll  like  us  just  as  he  did  the  poor  widow,"  &c.  And 
then  mamma  would  smile  and  go  off  into  a  doze ;  and 
the  little  pale  creature  would  sit,  and  think,  and  watch 
her  between  his  dark  ringlets,  with  a  countenance  as 
pure  and  bright  and  solemn,  as  that  with  w^hich  his 
angel  might,  at  the  same  moment,  have  been  beholding 
the  face  of  his  Father  in  heaven. 

As  we  have  seen,  one  feeling  which  lay  at  the  root 
of  Mrs.  Arden's  mode  of  education, — and  w^hich  cov- 
ered up,  in  the  eye  of  her  conscience,  the  love  of  self- 
indulgence  which  was  her  immediate  motive, — was  her 
solicitude  for  Herman's  spiritual  welfare.  They  w^ere 
in  all  probability  to  enjoy  little  more  of  one  another's 
society  on  earth.  She  must  insure  to  herself  his  society 
in  heaven.  In  short,  she  was  afraid  to  trust  him  in 
the  world  in  which  his  Maker  had  appointed  his  pro- 
bation. Her  mistake  was  probably  a  much  rarer,  per- 
haps a  safer  one  than  that  of  virtually  granting  the 
freedom  of  a  city,  w^ithout  precaution,  reservation,  or 
oversight,  to  the  incautious,  susceptible,  chameleon  soul 
of  a  child.  Still  there  w^ere  great  dangers  attending  it ; 
and  an  obvious  one  was,  that  her  son, — when  he  became 


THE    FAMILY    POKTKAIT-GALLERY.  65 

his  own  master,  as  sooner  or  later,  if  he  lived,  he 
must, — would,  seeing  his  conspicuous  inferiority  in 
some  things  to  other  boys  or  young  men,  for  very  shame 
become  shameless,  and  imitate  them  even  in  the  wild- 
ness  and  wickedness  which,  being  too  often  the  brand, 
are  too  often  mistaken  for  the  stamp  of  hardihood. 
Even  if  he  escaped  this  peril,  how  was  her  hot-house 
sensitive  plant  ever  to  endure  hardness  as  becometh  a 
soldier  of  Christ  ?  She  might  reasonably  have  antici- 
pated, to  be  sure,  that  one  or  two  years  more  of  her 
management  would  have  so  enervated  his  physical 
frame,  as  forever  to  cut  him  off  from  the  dangers  and 
duties  of  active  life ;  but 

**  Lliomme  propose, 
Et  Dieu  dispose." 

When  Herman  was  twelve  years  old,  after  three 
days  and  nights  of  watching  and  terrible  anxiety,  which 
he  endured  with  an  agonized  self-control  which,  in  him, 
surprised  all  who  witnessed  it, — during  which  he  was 
never  once  undressed,  and  slej)t  only  by  snatches  be- 
side her  on  her  death-bed, — he  saw  his  mother  breathe 
her  last,  and  was  carried  in  Edward's  arms  from  her 
chamber,  in  fits.  It  was  midnight.  He  went  from  one 
swoon  to  another  till  morning,  but  was  well  enough  on 
the  day  after  the  funeral  to  be  brought  down  stairs 
between  his  brother  and  sister,  and  laid  on  the  sofa  in 
the  drawing-room.  He  was  very  gentle  and  submis- 
sive towards  them;  but  his  grief,  though  borne  pa- 
tiently and  silently,  seemed  too  heavy  for  his  little 
strength  to  rally  under ;  and,  in  the  course  of  the  fol- 
lowing week,  Clara,  while  re-arranging  the  chamber 
which  his  mother  had  occupied,  thought  she  heard 
Bomething  from  Sally  in  the  dressing-room,  about  "  the 


66  HERMAN. 

cliild,"  and  "not  long  for  this  world."     Sally  was  sum- 
moned with  unusual  haste  and  emphasis. 

"  Nurse ! — what  was  that  you  were  saying  about  lit- 
tle Herman  ?" 

"La,  Miss  Clara,  I  didn't  speak, — not  to  you,  I 
would  say.  I  was  only  a  talkin'  to  Bridget  about 
somethin'  or  'nother.  I  ask  pardon  for  disturbin'  of 
you,  I'm  sure.     I  didn't  know  as  you  was  there." 

"  ]N"urse,  did  you  say  he  was  going  to  die  V 
"  Well,  Miss  Clara,  I'd  rather  not  imdertake  to  re- 
member exactly, — if  it's  all  the  same  to  you, — the  very 
words  as  I  was  a  sayin'  on  jest  that  minute.  My 
memory's  gittin  dreadful  poor ;  and  'taint  best  never  to 
undertake  to  tell  nobody  nothin'  'thout  you  knowsr  it. 
It's  app'inted  to  all  on  us  sometime  or  'nother  to  die, 
as  the  minister  says ;- — not  till  bumbye  I  hope,  'cause 
the  best  on  us  aint  hardly  good  enough  yet." 

"]^urse,"  returned  Miss  Clara,  evading  ghostly 
counsel  and  drawing  her  girlish  figure  up  to  its  full 
height,  (five  feet  eight  precisely  in  her  little  high-heeled 
boots,)  "  little  Herman  is  not  going  to  die.  I  shall  see 
about  it."  Words  of  power,  as  Nurse  knew.  Clara  very 
seldom,  in  those  days, undertook  to  "see  about"  anything; 
but  when  she  did,  it  was  usually  seen  dbout^  and  well. 

"  La,  well.  Miss  Clara,  dear,  I  s'pose  then  he  won't. 
There !  Don't  you  cry  !  Don't  you  cry  !  Eed  eyes 
is  very  pretty  for  the  rabbits ;  but  blue  ones  is  the 
nicest  for  you." 

Just  after  the  street-lamps  were  lighted  that  after- 
noon, and  one  minute  after  the  chaise  of  the  family 
physician.  Dr.  Brodie,  deposited  him  at  his  door,  which 
was  opposite  to  Mr.  Arden's,  the  doctor's  bell  rang 
sharply;  a  light,  quick,  fluttering  sound  ran  up  his 
stairs ;  and  a  tall  weird  figure,  black  from  head  to  in- 


THF    FA^nLY    POKTE AIT-GALLERY.  67 

dia-rubbers,  appeared  in  his  study.  The  rain-spangled 
shawl,  which  was  wrapped  hastily  abont  the  top  of  it, 
fell  back ;  and  out  came  the  golden  curls  and  fair  flushed 
face  of  his  young  favorite,  Clara. 

"  Why,  my  dear  I  Is  it  you  ?  TThat  is  the  matter  ? 
Is  Herman  sick?" 

"Yes,  Doctor, — no, — I  mean  he's  no  worse  to- 
night; but  he  does  not  get  better  very  fast;  and  I 
want  to  know  what  I  shall  do  to  make  him  well." 

The  Doctor  was  very  sorry  for  her,  and  a  good  deal 
at  a  loss.  He  was  a  busy  man,  and  intent  upon  liis 
business.  In  the  sick-room,  he  usually  saw  the  sick 
person  he  came  to  see,  and  nothing  and  nobody  else. 
Hei-man's  positive  ailments  up  to  this  time  had  been 
few ;  for  nature  seemed,  in  the  beginning,  to  have  in- 
tended him  to  inherit  from  his  father  a  constitution 
which,  though  slight  and  susceptible,  was  elastic  and 
enduring.  Dr.  Brodie  had  never  happened  to  inquire 
j>articularly  into  his  habits,  or  to  suspect  the  almost 
total  want  of  air,  exercise,  and  proper  food  taken  with 
proper  appetite,  which  had  gradually  paved  the  way  to 
liis  present  condition.  He  thought  it  a  mysterious  and 
desperate  one,  and  could  not  bear  to  say  so  to  the  hope- 
ful, loving  young  creatm'e,  who  came  to  him  with  so 
much  confidence.  He  soothed  her  by  entering  very 
s}Tnpathizingly  into  a  long  conversation  upon  the  sub- 
ject, in  the  course  of  which  he  discovered  causes,  in- 
deed, more  than  sufficient  to  account  for  the  state  in 
which  her  little  brother  was  ;  but  if  they  explained  it, 
they  scarcely  made  it  less  alarming.  He  doubted 
whether  Herman  could  survive  the  immediate  effects 
of  the  mismanagement  from  which  he  was  suffering, 
and  whether,  even  if  he  did,  his  life  could  ever  be  a 
blessing  to  himself  or  to  any  one  else ;  but  he  finally 


68  HERMAN. 

told  Clara  that  he  thought,  "if  Herman  was  taken  at 
once  to  the  sea-shore,  kept  in  the  open  air  as  much  as 
possible,  and  away  from  his  books,  amused,  induced  to 
play  with  other  children,  and  judiciously  fed,  it  might 
save  him,"  adding,  with  a  mental  reservation,  "  if  any- 
thing could." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  Clara  engaged  him  to 
call  that  very  evening  after  tea,  "  to  tell  papa  ;"  con- 
ferred with  Sally  Dailey;  was  called  the  next  morn- 
ing at  five  o'clock,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life ;  still 
more  strange  to  tell,  rose  when  she  was  called ;  break- 
fasted on  an  egg,  as  being  at  once  compendious  and 
nourishing ;  ran  out  and  bought  two  travelling-trunks ; 
with  Nurse's  assistance  packed  them,  and  a  basket  of 
provisions ;  kissed  her  father  ;  hugged  Ned,  who  came 
hurrying  and  gaping  down  stairs  just  before  it  was  too 
late  to  bid  her  good-bye ;  made  him  promise  to  write 
to  her  every  week  and, — without  much  difficulty, — to 
spend  his  whole  vacation  with  her ;  ordered  round  the 
coach,  put  Sally,  two  pillows,  and  Herman,  into  it ; 
jumped  in  herself,  and  drove  away  with  his  head  in 
her  lap,  in  the  soft  June  morning,  to  lodge  for  five  or 
six  months  witli  the  family  who  cultivated  a  large,  old- 
fashioned  farm  belonging  to  her  father,  on  the  sea- 
shore not  many  miles  from  Boston. 

Here  Miss  Clara  passed  her  time  profitably,  in 
"  astonishing  the  natives  "  not  only  by  her  beauty,  but 
by  her  doings.  For  the  first  five  or  six  days,  to  be 
sure,  she  was  scarcely  seen ;  for  Herman,  overcome 
with  fatigue,  soothed  by  the  rich,  heavy  salt  air,  and 
lulled  by  the  slumberous,  ceaseless  murmur  of  the  sea, 
slept  from  morning  till  night,  and  from  night  till  morn- 
ing, while  Sally  took  care  of  him  through  the  dark 
hours,  and  his  sister  through  the  bright  ones,  dividing 


THE    FAMILY    POKTKAIT-GALLEEY.  69 

lier  attention  between  him  within,  and  the  beautifnl  ori- 
oles without  the  window,  flashing  like  lightning  from  one 
fiill-blossoming  apple-tree  to  another,  vicioni-ly  tweak- 
ing the  blossoms,  and  interspersing  these  performances 
with  their  startling,  reedy,  rollicking  whistle.  But  at 
the  end  of  this  period,  she  with  him  made  her  appear- 
ance out-of-doors,  in  a  gray  gingham  and  flat.  She 
sat  with  him  in  the  woods,  and  hung  him  about  like  an 
idol,  (as  he  was  to  her,)  with  oak-leaf-wreaths  and  pine- 
leaf  chains.  She  milked  the  pet  Alderney  into  his 
mouth,  and  gathered  wild  strawberries,  raspberries, 
blue-berries,  and  thimble-berries,  into  that  ever  recep- 
tive and  commodious  cavity.  She  called  the  farmer's 
children  about  her,  and,  with  him  clinging  fast  to  her 
hand,  took  the  lead  in  most  uproarious  games  of  puss- 
in-the-corner  and  the  old-man's-castle.  She  wrote  to 
the  Doctor  for  leave  to  let  him  bathe  in  the  sea,  and 
set  Sally  to  make  them  up  some  bathing-dresses,  and 
Edward  to  teach  them  to  swim.  She  soon  proceeded  to 
climb  with  him  into  the  hay-carts,  and,  reclining  in  the 
scented  hay  and  clover,  made  luxurious  progresses 
through  bright  meadows  twinkling  with  butter-cups,  and 
shady  grassy  lanes  among  the  wild  green  hills,  balmy  with 
the  breath  of  evergreens,  and  strown,  as  if  by  the 
giants,  with  huge  mossy  rocks,  while  rough  ridgy  pole- 
fences,  sticking  out  of  their  sides  here  and  there  like 
the  back-bones  of  mastodons,  completed  their  antedilu- 
vian expression.  She  rowed  him  in  a  boat ;  she  went 
jogging  about,  with  him  before  her,  on  the  back  of  a 
plodding  old  cart-horse;  and,  in  a  word,  she  played 
with  him  such  pranks  as  were  never  heard  of  in,  or 
imagined  possible  to,  that  discreet  and  decorous  young 
woman  before  or  after. 

This  was   Herman's  first  actual  face  to  face,  and 


TO  HEKMAN. 

hand  to  hand,  introduction  to  his  mother  earth ;  and 
he  passed  his  time  in  a  sort  of  wondering  rapture  too 
deep  for  expression,  except  that  once,  in  a  confiding 
mood,  he  told  his  sister  he  had  dreamed  that  the  farm 
was  the  Garden  of  Eden,  and  she  was  Eve  without  any 
snake,  and  with  leave  to  eat  apples  if  she  wanted  to, 
though  she  liked  the  peaches  better ;  and  he  was  her 
son  Abel;  but  Cain  had  been  sent  to  a  boarding- 
school,  (which  was  Herman's  great  horror,  and  equiva- 
lent for  a  banishment  to  Siberia.) — Clara  still  had  to 
allow  him  to  read  his  chapter  in  the  Bible  every  day, 
though  other  books  were  strictly  withheld.  He  could 
not  go  to  sleep  without  it ;  for  he  had  "  promised  poor 
mamma." — Towards  thanksgiving  time,  she  brought 
him  back  to  town,  with  the  last  chestnuts  in  a  bag  as  a 
present  for  the  Doctor,  alighted  at  that  gentleman's 
door,  and  in  triumph  exhibited  her  patient  to  him  with 
cheeks  redder  than  her  own ;  and  hers  bloomed  to  such 
a  degree,  that  she  looked  like  Gambadella's  portrait  of 
her  mother  come  out  of  the  frame ;  that  for  one  young 
admirer  whom  she  had  left  behind  her,  she  now  had 
two,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal ;  and  that  she  was 
pretty  unanimously  pronounced  to  be  the  handsomest 
girl  in  Boston  that  winter.  She  had  "  seen  about  it. 
Little  Herman"  did  not  die. 

There  was  now  nothing  morbid  left  visible  about 
him,  except  his  more  than  girlish  shyness  and  sensi- 
tiveness ;  and  these  might  cling  to  him  through  Hfe,  un- 
less done  away  .with  by  the  companionship  of  other 
boys.  He  was  therefore  placed  at  once  at  the  Latin- 
School.  There  his  lessons  gave  him  no  trouble ;  and 
though  Edward,  who,  with  all  liis  indolence  in  other 
matters,  was  quite  English  in  his  devotion  to  boyish 
and  manly  exercises,  was  fain  for  very  shame  to  give 


TIIK    FAMILY    POP.TRAIT-GALLEHY.  71 

him  private  lessons  in  their  own  yard  in  sliding,  and 
on  a  solitary  spot  on  the  Back  Bay  in  skating,  before 
he  could  suffer  him  to  exhibit  his  attempts  in  either  to 
his  school-mates,  he  got  on,  on  the  whole,  very  well 
with  them.  He  had  both  an  ardor  about  whatever  he 
undertook,  and  a  natural  dexterity,  which  enabled  him 
quickly  to  overtake  or  outstrip  most  of  them  in  any- 
thing which  required  skill  rather  than  strength ;  and 
his  strength  was  in  the  meantime  increasing  rapidly. 
Besides,  there  was  a  certain  magical  charm  about  Her- 
man's nature,  which  tended  to  make  every  one  who 
had  a  good  side  turn  it  to  him  instinctively.  With 
him,  the  rough  were  gentle  and  the  brazen  modest ; 
and,  though  this  led  him  in  his  after  life  to  form  too 
favorable  judgments  of  his  neighbours  at  first,  and  thus 
sometimes  to  be  disappointed  in  the  end,  it  certainly 
was  in  his  early  days  a  merciful  tempering  of  the 
wind  to  the  shorn  lamb.  He  went  on  rapidly  and 
prosperously  through  school,  college,  and  the  Law 
School ;  while  his  great  facility  saved  him  time  enough 
for  dabbling  in  drawing,  modelling,  and  verse-making, 
in  each  of  which  his  efforts  were  crowned  with  a  mod- 
erate degree  of  success  while  they  continued,  which 
was  usually  until  some  other  hobby  happened  to  be 
trotted  out  before  him,  and  not  after. 

The  only  marked  incident  in  his  history,  between 
his  recovery  and  majority,  was  the  death  of  his  father. 
Mr.  Arden  was  struck  with  apoplexy  at  his  desk,  and 
went,  in  three  days,  from  the  counting-house  to  the 
narrow  house.  His  children  were  dutifully  as  sorry 
for  him  as  they  could  be ;  but  that  was  not  so  soriy 
as  they  might  have  been.  He  had  been  too  busy  in 
trying  to  make  them  rich,  to  spare  any  time  for  making 
them    happy.     Happy  they  had  been;  but  it  was  in 


HEKMAN. 


one  another,  and  not  in  hini ;  and  about  as  happy, 
therefore,  they  continued  without  him.  He  had  never 
been  intimate  with  his  children.  There  were  no  mutual 
consolations,  rejoicings,  confidences,  or  counsels  to  re- 
member and  to  miss  when  he  w^as  gone.  All  Clara's 
few  little  perplexities  and  troubles  had  been  shared 
between  "ITed  and  Nurse;"  all  Herman's,  little  and 
great,  between  ''  mamma  and  Clara ;"  and  as  for  Ed- 
waid,  he  never  appeared  to  have  any,  little  or  great. 
They  had  hardly  seen  their  father  through  their  child- 
hood, except  at  their  meals ;  and  then  he  was  usually 
tired,  and  seldom  spoke  except  to  enforce  upon  them 
the  old-fashioned  monastic  rule  of  silence  at  the  table. 
When  they  grew  older,  and  he  would  willingly  have 
heard  and  joined  in  their  conversation,  the  habit  of 
silence  and  constraint  before  him  had  become  too  fixed 
to  be  easily  broken.  He  did  not  know  how  to  draw 
his  daughter  out ;  and  his  oldest  son  was  pursuing  his 
studies  at  college,  and  afterwards  at  Paris.  He  felt  his 
loneliness  on  his  own  hearth  sometimes,  but  ascribed  it 
chiefly  to  his  widowhood.  If  he  suffered,  he  betrayed 
it  only  by  increasing  gravity  and  sternness ;  if  his 
spirits  rose,  by  going  more  to  his  Club.  Thus,  though 
a  most  upright  and  well-intentioned  man,  or  perhaps, 
to  speak  more  correctly,  most  free  from  ill  intention, 
and  in  money  matters  a  very  indulgent  parent,  he  lived 
little  beloved,  and  died  little  lamented  by  his  children, 
and  left  with  them  a  memory  which,  instead  of  being 
a  cherished  source  of  tender,  elevating,  and  grateful 
feeling,  was  a  briar  in  their  consciences  that  it  was  a 
relief  to  cast  from  them ;  because,  though  they  had  no 
unfilial  words  nor  deeds  to  reproach  themselves  with 
on  his  account,  they  could  not  but  acknowledge  to 
themselves  that  they  had  said  or  done  very  little  to 
give  him  pleasure. 


THE    FAMILY    POETEAIT-GALLEEY.  73 

Edward  and  Clara  moved  on  towards  middle  life, 
side  by  side,  gracefully,  graciously,  and  harmoniously, 
with  a  merry  mutual  understanding,  that  if  they  could 
ever  find  fellow-pilgrims  whom  they  liked  better  than 
one  another,  they  should  part  at  once ;  but  that  had 
not  happened.  The  pet  quality  of  each  appeared  to 
be  a  certain  quiet  elegance  in  living,  being,  and  doing, 
and  that  each  of  them  beheld  possessed  in  an  almost 
unrivalled  degree  by  the  other.  As  to  their  moral  aud 
religious  code,  it  was.  much  like  that  of  Constance,  with 
two  additional  clauses  inserted,  while  it  was  formingr, 
by  the  early  cares  of  Sally,  which  decreed  that  they 
should  read  the  Bible  on  Sundays,  and  go  to  church 
twice  on  that  day,  if  the  weather  was  as  good  as  that 
which  did  not  prevent  their  walking  and  riding  through 
the  other  days  of  the  week; — and  these  clauses  had  a 
supplement,  that  probably  grew  out  of  the  observance 
of  them,  to  the  effect  that  one  ought  to  do  any  good 
office  to  others  which  came  in  one's  way,  which  could 
be  done  without  putting  one's  self  much  out  of  one's 
way.  In  what  is  called  the  religious  sentiment,  Clai*a 
abounded,  and  Edward  was  not  deficient ;  but  it  was 
only  another  item  in  their  long  list  of  luxuries.  Their 
practice,  it  must  be  owned,  was  much  better  than  Con- 
stance's, both  because  their  tempers  were,  and  because 
they  had  had  a  home  to  grow  up  in,  and  some  kindly 
domestic  infiuences  to  grow  up  under  and  to  serve  as 
conductors  outwards  for  their  general  human  sym- 
pathies ;  but  the  example  of  Mrs.  Arden  the  third 
had  certainly  not  tended  to  attract  them  magnetically 
to  the  devout  life. 

Edward  was  by  this  time  a  physician.  He  had  as 
much  employment  as  he  wanted  among  the  rich,  which 
was  a  little,  and  as  much  as  he  wanted  among  the  poor, 
4 


74  HERMAN. 

whicli  was  usually  none  at  all.  He  did  not  care  to  be 
roused  from  his  downy  slumbers  by  night,  to  soothe  the 
exaggerated  alarms  of  indisposed  "  exiles  of  Erin"  in 
Broad  Street,  nor,  by  day,  to  have  conquered  combat- 
ants, with  broken  heads,  borne  in  by  their  exclamatory 
friends  ("  an'  surely !")  in  hob-nailed  shoes  over  Clara's 
hall-carpet,  into  his  very-well-appointed  library.  He 
baited  no  trap,  therefore,  for  such  miscreants,  by  put- 
ting a  sign  in  either  of  his  windows.  His  father's  door- 
plate  only,  left  undisturbed,  or  his  servant  if  he  was 
out,  told  his  friends  of  his  whereabouts;  and  when 
they  were  not  very  well, — nor  very  ill, — they  sent  for 
him.  His  parts  were  naturally  fine ;  and  no  expense 
had  been  spared  in  his  education.  He  was  as  skilful 
as  want  of  experience  would  let  him  be ;  and  the 
beauty  of  his  person,  voice,  and  movements,  made  his 
presence  seem  as  appropriate  as  that  of  fruit  and  flow- 
ers in  a  luxurious  sick-room. 

Clara  kept  house  for  him  with  a  goodly  corjps  of 
servants  under  her,  ordered  the  dishes,  and  played  the 
pieces,  which  her  brothers  liked  best.  She  read  a 
little,  embroidered  much,  went  shopping  with  a  full 
purse,  and  seemed  to  herself  and  others  to  possess  a  lot 
most  enviably  full  of  indulgences  and  void  of  duties. 
She  went  to  balls  and  parties,  made  calls,  had  dinner- 
parties when  she  could  get  enough  good  talkers  to- 
gether, and  often  sat  between  times  in  a  mysteriously 
beautiful  trance;  as  she  was  still  doing  late  on  this 
particular  Sunday  afternoon,  when  Edward,  having 
obligingly  left  us  time  for  a  great  deal  of  gossipping 
about  him  and  his,  at  last  exerted  himself  so  far  as  to 
take  his  cigar  from  his  dainty  lips,  between  the  tips 
of  two  ivory-rimmed  fingers,  and  said,  "  Clara." 

She  raised  her  eye-lashes  and  answered,  "  Miofra- 
telloP 


THE    FAMILY    POETEAIT-GALLEKY.  75 

"  Don't  jou.  think  you'd  better  go  and  sec  about 
Herman?" 

She  looked  all  astray.     A  relation  of  hers  once  said 

of  her,  that,  tender-hearted  as  she  was,  and  efficient, 

too,  when  roused  to  action,  another  might  be  fading  at 

her  side,  or  she  herself 

'  *  Wearing  awa', 
Like  the  snow-wreath  i'  the  thaw," 

without  her  finding  it  out.  She  was  too  full  of  happi- 
ness to  suspect  the  approach  of  sorrow.  Her  spirit  was 
so  clad  in  brightness,  that  shadows  passed  by  and 
never  fell  upon  her. 

Edward  continued,  "  He  was  walking  the  floor 
over  my  head  half  the  night.  You  must  have  ob- 
served that  he  ate  no  dinner  to-day.  That  sort  of 
thing  won't  do  for  his  mother's  son.  He  must  have 
some  weight  on  liis  mind.  I  dare  say  it  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  that  unlucky  speech.  He  would 
never  have  made  it,  if  he  had  only  had  the  discretion 
to  consult  me  first.  It's  capital  in  itself,  to  be  sure, 
and  true  enough,  I  dare  say ;  and  he's  a  noble  fellow ; 
but  whom  can  he  get  to  act  with  him  ?  Kobody  but  a 
mob  of  unpractical  and  impracticable  fanatics.  All 
the  respectable  [usus  loquendi  :  i.  e.,  respected  ?]  men 
of  the  jN^orth  have  got  their  minds  made  up  quite  as 
stubbornly  as  those  of  the  South,  not  to  do  anything 
against  Slavery,  however  they  may  talk  now  and  then 
just  before  an  election ;  and  if  one  of  them  steps  an 
inch  in  advance  of  the  rest,  they  all  fall  away  from  him 
to  the  right  and  the  left,  and  he  ceases  to  be  respecta- 
ble ;  and  as  for  our  mechanics,  tradesmen,  and  farmers, 
[  suspect  they  are  under  the  influence,  if  not  in  the  power, 
of  the  nohs  and  the  demagogues  here,"  said  Edward, 
exaggerating  as  rhetoricians  are  sometimes  tempted  to 


76  HERMAN. 

do  for  the  sake  of  point  and  parallel,  "  almost  as  much 
as  the  sand-hillers  and  mean  white  men,  that  Herman 
talks  about,  are  there.  They  have  knowledge  enough 
to  make  money,  but  not  enough  to  make  statesmen.  This 
brother  of  ours  will  only  get  himself  into  Coventry  for 
nothing ;  and  I  cannot  see  the  good  sense  of  giving  up 
all  the  peace  and  comfort  of  life  for  the  sake  of  these 
abstract  questions." 

Clara  neither  knew  nor  cared  much  about  the  politi 
cal  questions  under  discussion ;  but  the  idea  of  Herman 
ill  or  in  trouble  had  frightened  her  out  of  her  usual 
careful  courtesy,  and  nearly  up  two  flights  of  stairs, 
before  Edward  got  half  through  his  oration,  which  he 
finished  notwithstanding,  to  himself,  probably  be- 
cause, having  once  begun,  he  thought  it  too  much 
trouble  to  leave  off. 


THE  kxight's  vow.  77 


CE AFTER    V, 

THE    KNIGHT'S   YOW. 

"  Omai  convien  cTie  tu  cost  U  spoUre  I 
Disse'l  maestro."  Dante. 

It  seems  to  be  received  as  an  axiom,  just  now, 
among  a  large  class  of  critics  both  literary  and  oral, 
that  perfection  of  moral  beauty  must  needs  be  in  itself 
a  blemish,  and  render  its  possessor  uninteresting  and 
unnatural.  TTe  do  not  hold  these  truths,  if  truths 
they  be,  self-evident.  On  the  contrary,  there  appears 
to  us  in  our  blindness,  to  be  a  close  analogy  between 
moral  beauty  and  most  other  kinds  of  beauty,  physical 
beauty  included ;  and  who  but  a  peculiarly  barbarous 
barbarian  could  think  the  Apollo  Belvidere  rendered 
more  interesting  or  more  natural  by  a  hump-back, 
bandy-legs,  or  a  skull  modelled  after  that  of  a  Flat- 
head Indian  ?  In  fact,  the  very  statement  of  the  above 
doctrine  involves  a  contradiction  in  terms.  We  have 
seen  a  great  many  goodpeople,  indeed,  who  appeared  to 
us  too  priggish,  but  never  one  who  appeared  to  us  too 
perfect. 

As  that  ingenious  and  liberal  moral  philosopher 
and  casuist,  Increase  Cotton,  LL.  D.,  teaches  however, 
while  it  is  highly  proper  to  have  a  judgment  of  one's 
own,  it  would  be  rash  and  self-conceited  to  act  accord- 
ing to  it,  where  it  runs  counter  to  that  of  the  public  at 
any  given  time  ;  because  charity  forbids  us  to  doubt 
that  the  public  are  always  conscientious  in  forming 
their  judgments ;  and   because   a  hundred,  and   still 


78  HERMAN. 

more  a  million,  of  heads  are  better  than  one, — the  case 
of  the  Hydra,  and  a  very  few  others  somewhat  simi- 
lar, being  mythical  and  altogether  exceptional.  It 
gives  me  pleasure,  therefore,  to  be  able,  gracefully 
bowing  in  this  matter  to  the  opinion  of  the  critics 
aforesaid,  to  bespeak  their  interest  and  sympathy  in 
and  with  my  hero,  by  declaring  that,  at  this  period  of 
his  life,  and  perhaps  to  the  end  of  it,  he  was  not  per- 
fect at  all.  Oh,  that  I  were  able  to  conform  myself 
to  that  further  fictitious,  not  to  say  factitious,  standard 
of  taste,  according  to  which,  just  as, — though  a  hemor- 
rhage from  the  nose,  howsoever  ill-timed,  distressing, 
or  even  dangerous  to  the  patient,  is  comic, — one  from 
the  lungs  is  poetical  and  tragic ;  and  an  extravasation  of 
blood  about  the  heart  is  not  inappropriate  to  the  demise 
of  the  most  romantic  civil  hero,  (who  would  seem,  in- 
deed, capable  of  escaping  an  earthly  immortality  only 
by  means  of  pulmonary  disease  or  some  accident,  un- 
less pounced  upon  by  some  convenient  and  imposing 
epidemic,)  while  a  similar  affection  of  the  brain  of  an 
imaginary  personage  can  be  rendered  affecting  or  ex- 
cusable only  by  a  weight  of  years  and  virtues  in  the 
patient ;  so  certain  moral  diseases,  alias  sins,  in  actual 
life  making  the  sinner  by  no  means  peculiarly  en- 
gaging, have  in  fiction  acquired  a  prescriptive  right  to 
our  regard  !  I  know  how  much  more  picturesque,  be- 
coming, and  appropriate  to  the  fair  ideal  of  early  man- 
hood, are  the  vices  of  the  bandit  than  the  foibles  of 
the  boy ;  but,  alas !  there  is  such  a  thing  as  truth  as 
well  as  conformity  in  the  world,  even  the  world  of 
novelists;  and  truth  to  my  vision  of  Herman, — as  he 
now  rises  before  me  out  of  my  inkstand  day  by  day, 
like  the  genie  rising  out  of  the  casket  or  the  fair  Lady 
of  Avenel  out  of  her  well, — compels  me  to  own,  on 


79 

pain  of  having  my  sharp  metallic  pen  forevermore 
rankling  like  a  thorn  in  my  conscience,  that  he  was 
scarcely  more  like  a  bandit  than  was  the  fair  lady  her- 
self, and  though  beautiful  and  in  his  way  grand  in 
himself, — whether  I  can  show  him  to  be  so  by  my 
tame  sketch  or  not, — ^beautiful  and  grand  rather  after 
the  fashion  of  St.  Michael,  than  that  of  Satan  writhing 
under  his  feet. 

He  had  been,  up  to  this  time,  one  of  those  stainless 
but  somewhat  whimsical  spiritual  knights,  who,  for 
want  of  the  inward  foes  which  their  fine  and  lofty  na- 
tures refuse  to  afford  them,  and  not  having  heard  as 
yet  the  trumpet  which  calls  them  to  fight  an  outward 
battle  with  evil  for  their  neighbours,  are  driven  to  fight 
a  few  spiritual  windmills  now  and  then.  He  had  in- 
herited a  little  of  his  mother's  morbid,  negative,  and 
spurious  conscientiousness.  His  fastidiousness  he  car- 
ried almost  as  far  as  Constance  did  hers,— that  is, 
almost  to  a  sin  ; — but  if  he  did  lock  up  the  inner  trea- 
sures of  his  nature,  and  give  a  pass-key  to  only  three  or 
four  friends  at  a  time,  he  did  not  frown  on  the  rest  of 
the  world  or  push  them  roughly  away  from  the  key- 
hole, but  hid  it  with  a  smile,  and  treated  them  all  the 
while  to  so  much  of  his  general  good-will  and  urbanity, 
that  they  never  imagined  how  much  he  was  all  the 
while  withholding  from  them.  He  had  a  strong  and 
burning  desire,  by  success  in  some  art  to  glorify  less 
his  God  than  himself.  Instinctively  and  invariably 
kind  as  he  was  to  all  creatures  weaker  than  himself, — 
wpmen,  children,  and  inferior  animals, — his  tempera- 
ment, from  extreme  sensitiveness,  was  irritable  enough 
to  give  him  much  more  trouble  than  it  was  ever  suffered 
to  give  his  neighbours  ;  and  if  anything  mean  or  cruel 
would  force  itself  upon  his  notice,  he  was  capable  of 


80  HERMAN. 

being  extremely  angry,  though  hitherto  he  had  sinned 
not,  and  seldom  let  the  sun  go  down  upon  his  wrath. 
He  had,  in  cold  blood,  a  great  and  overweening  dislike 
to  giving  offence  to  others  even  in  a  good  cause  ;  and 
when  he  was  grieved,  as  he  still  was  too  easily,  his 
mother's  tears  had  not  yet  quite  forgotten  their  way  up 
into  his  bright,  dark  eyes,  though  few  human  eyes  were 
suffered  to  see  them  there.  Mortifying  faults !  But 
he  was  ashamed  of  most  of  them,  and  struggled  with 
them  all  as  fast  as  he  found  them  out,  as  valiantly  as 
he  would  have  done  with  the  more  interesting  brigand 
peculiarities  to  which  we  have  been  alluding,  if  he  had 
had  them  to  struggle  with ;  and  if  we  any  of  us  succeed 
in  taking  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  as  we  are  bidden  to 
strive  to  do,  by  force,  it  must  be  by  resisting  the 
temptations  we  have,  rather  than  those  we  have  not. 
If  he  had  other  faults,  his  friends  could  not  find  them 
out ;  and  it  is  a  curious  psycliological  fact,  which  in 
some  points  of  view  rather  favors  the  practice  of  hu- 
mility and  self-examination,  that  those  who  honestly 
and  secretly  find  the  most  fault  with  themselves,  are 
commonly  the  very  persons  with  whom  others  find  the 
least. 

Such  as  he  was,  then,  Clara  knocked  at  his  door. 
He  came  to  it  smiling,  though  not  speaking  and  look- 
ing somewhat  pale  and  dishevelled,  and  stood  holding 
it  hospitably  open.  She  shone  in,  like  a  moonbeam ; 
and  he  rolled  his  study-chair  for  her  up  to  one  side  of 
the  fire-place.  She  sank  down  in  it  in  her  dreamy 
way, and  singing,  "The  Lord  is  my  shepherd," —  in  a 
low,  full,  sweet  tone,  like  that  of  a  subdued  or^an- 
pipe, — to  his  favorite  air  of  Adeste  Fideles^  she  looked 
round  the  room. 

It  was  large  and  long,  though  low,  and  fitted  up  in 


THE  KXIGHT  S    VOW.  81 

a  ricL,  strange,  fantastic  style.  Part  of  the  farniture 
was  antique,  of  carved  black  walnut ;  and  the  rest, 
though  modern,  carefully  made  to  match.  The  cur- 
tains and  carpet  were  dark.  Busts,  globes,  relics,  and 
oddities,  stood  on  queer  little  tables  against  the  walls, 
looking  very  weirdly  in  the  flickering  firelight ;  and 
the  walls  were  hung  above  with  old  engravings,  small 
paintings,  and  so-forth.  Everything  in  the  room  seemed 
instinct  with  some  kind  of  significance,  and  to  have 
been  carefully  selected  to  suit  the  peculiar  taste  of  the 
occupant.  Edward  once  told  him.  that  his  "  very  and- 
irons were  emblematic."  Over  the  mantel-piece  was  a 
skull  from  the  catacombs  of  Rome,  which  the  boy  had 
crowned  with  amaranth  and  set  up  there,  in  self- 
mockery,  as  the  likeness  of  his  idol,  Fame.  On  one 
side,  against  the  wall,  the  fitful  light  played  on  a  large 
marble  has-relief^  which  had  been  sent  him  from  Home 
by  a  prosperous  sculptor,  who,  on  his  way  thither 
years  before,  when  poor,  ill,  and  alone,  had  been  be- 
friended by  the  Arden  family,  and,  much  struck  by 
Herman's  singular  turn  of  mind  and  precocious  fancy, 
had  taken  the  design  from  one  of  his  ludicrously  ill- 
executed  drawings.  It  represented  the  Angels  of  Life 
and  Death,  floating  about  each  other, — the  one  robed, 
garlanded,  and  buoyant,  sweeping  upward  and  onward 
in  chase  of  a  butterfly,  which  hovered  before  it,  just 
beyond  its  reach ; — the  other,  dull  and  naked,  sinking 
blindly  and  heavily  downward,  with  closed  eyes  like  a 
sleeping  albatross,  a  fading  morning-glory  clutched  in 
one  unconscious  hand,  and  the  other  closing  instinct- 
ively on  one  furling  wing  of  its  heedless  companion, 
the  Angel  of  Life ; — with  the  motto  below,  in  black 

letter : 

"  I  am  the    stanchest  hunter,  playmate,  see ! 
Thou  chasest  butterflies,  while  I  catch  thee." 


82  HERMAJv". 

In  an  alcove,  wliicli  appeared  to  be  nsed  as  an  ora- 
tory, at  the  further  end  opposite  to  the  fire,  gleamed 
the  tarnished  gilding  of  two  tablets  containing  the 
Creed  and  ten  Commandments,  which  Herman  had 
rescued  from  destruction  or  desecration,  when  a  small 
Yirginian  ante-Revolutionary  chapel  was  pnlled  down, 
and  set  up  here,  where  they  seemed  to  hallow  all  the 
room.  On  one  side  of  the  alcove  hung  an  engraving 
of  Scheffer's  "  Dead  Christ,"  and  on  the  other,  one 
of  his  Christus'  ReTRunerator. 

In  the  midst  of  this  abundance  there  was  no  dis- 
order. Everything  kept  its  most  tasteful  and  appro- 
priate place ;  except,  indeed,  that  the  sofa,  where 
Herman  had  thrown  himself  again,  was  strewn  with 
books ;  for  it  was  one  of  his  peculiarities,  and  of  old 
Sallj^'s  few  complaints  against  him  after  he  came  in  a 
measure  under  her  care,  that  "  Master  Herman  couldn't 
never  read  no  fewer  than  a  dozen  books  at  a  time." 
The  most  of  these  things  Clara  saw  with  her  memory, 
quite  as  much  as  with  her  eyes ;  for,  though  Herman 
had  evidently  been  reading  and  writing,  he  had  tuped 
down  his  gas,  as  she  suspected  when  he  heard  her 
coming,  that  she  might  not  see  his  face  too  distinctly. 
On  the  writing-table  she  espied,  when  a  jet  of  flame 
blazed  up  from  the  coals,  a  freshly  written  paper,  glis- 
tening and  blotted,  apparently,  with  something  be- 
sides ink. 

"  Yon  look  rather  literary,"  said  Clara,  completing 
her  snrvey,  and  pausing  in  her  hymn,  "  What  have  you 
to  read?" 

"j^othing  very  ^lew:  the  Bible,  the  "  Imitatio 
Christi,''  St.  Francis  de  Sales's  ''Introduction  d  la 
Vie  Devote,''  Jeremy  Taylor,  Henry  Ware,  and  so- 
forth.     Clara,  what   do  you  suppose  those  worthies 


83 

would  have  said,  to  stand  in  my  window,  as  I  did  this 
cold  morning,  and  see  the  beggars  go  by  ?"  Herman 
had  never  quite  thrown  aside  his  old  habit  of  half- 
inquiring,  half-meditative  soliloquy,  when  alone  with 
her. 

"  That  they  were  sorry  for  them  ;  as  you  were  your- 
self, no  doubt."  He  shook  his  head.  "  Why,  what 
should  they  have  said  ?" 

"  '  He  who  hath  this  world's  goods,  and  seeth  his 
brother  have  need,  and  shutteth  up  his  compassion 
from  him,  how  dwelleth  the  love  of  God  in  him  V  per- 
haps ;  as  the  prayer-book  did  to-day." 

"  Do  you  think  that  means,  that  you  should  '  teach 
them  wants  they  never  knew  ? '  " 

"  Wants  of  engravings,  and  cushioned  chairs,  and 
carved  book-cases  ?  Ko.  I  should  have  an  easier  con- 
science, though,  to-night,  if  I  had  spared  a  little  time 
and  money  to  supply  some  of  the  wants  which,  I  fear, 
their  fortunes  have  taught  them  already, — want  of 
work,  fuel,  food,  and  innocence." 

"  Cheer  up,  then,  and  do  it  now  if  you  think  you 
ought.  You  have  not  lost  much  time.  You  have  your 
life  before  you." 

"  Yes ;"  and  he  sighed  heavily. 

"  Herman,  don't  you  want  to  tell  me  what  the  .mat- 
ter is  ?" 

"  Matter !  AVhy  ?  What  makes  you  think  any- 
thing is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Because  I  know.  Tell  me  now,  and  you  will  feel 
a  great  deal  better  ;  you  always  did  ;  I  will  make  you. 
My  fortitude  is  so  great, — equal  to  any  emergency !— it 
is  a  pity  not  to  prove  it.  I  see  already  that  you  must 
have  done  something  dreadful, — paid  six  cents  instead 
of  four-pence  half  penny, — or  said  you  were  glad  to 


84:  liEKMAN. 

Bee  somebody  you  wished  in  Yienna,  or  something  else 
as  terrible.  Certainty  would  be  better  than  suspense. 
Come,  let  me  know  the  worst  at  once.  Herman,  if 
you  won't,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  come  and  kiss  you." 

"  Kiss  me,  and  I  will." 

She  floated  towards  him  instantly,  and  bent  over 
the  arm  of  his  sofa,  and,  as  her  golden  shower  of  ring- 
lets fell  upon  his  face,  he  clasped  his  arms  around  her 
neck,  cried  "  Mother !"  and  burst  into  tears.  She  was 
deeply  touched.  It  carried  them  both  back  to  the 
time  when  such  outbreaks  of  feeling  had  been  more 
common  with  him  than  now,  and  when  her  tender 
ministrations  had  healed  the  desolate  little  orphan  of 
his  sickness  of  mind  and  body ;  and  the  sorrow  of  his 
young  manhood  soon  flowed  out  to  her  almost  as  freely 
as  his  boyish  confidences  had  been  wont  to  do,  except 
that  he  could  not  own  to  her,  for  he  would  not  to  him- 
self, what  a  spirit  his  idol  had  shown, — well  nigh  her 
own  iconoclast.  After  the  first  ebullition  of  his  emo- 
tion, however,  it  was  kept  down  and  in  wdth  that  un- 
flinching, agonizing  self-repression  which,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  another  almost  always, — taken  in  connection 
with  its  intensity, — made  sufl'ering  in  Herman  so  im- 
posing, so  affecting,  and  so  unlike  that  of  any  one  else, 
and  which  in  his  childhood  had  proved  almost  too 
much  for  his  strength  or  life  to  support. 

He  confessed  his  love, — its  delight,  suspense,  strong 
and  increasing  hope, — and  then  his  loss  of  her  who  was 
to  have  been,  who  only  could  have  been,  his  inspira- 
tion, his  muse,  his  guiding  star,  the  divinity  at  whose 
shrine  his  hitherto  too  selfish  ambition  should  have 
been  hallowed,  the  magnet  by  which  he  should  have 
learned  to  steer  his  hitherto  fickle  course  steadfastly, 
et  cetera,  et  cetera.     Poor  Herman  !     He  said  it  all  as 


85 

simply  as  he  knew  how,  and  just  as  he  thought  it ;  but 
he  was  yet  a  mere  youth,  in  love,  and  in  first  love, 
and  of  com-se  he  could  hardly  be  expected  to 

"Ope 
Hia  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope." 

Clara  smoothed  his  jetty  curls  with  her  light  jew- 
elled fingers,  and  pitied  liim  so  truly,  that,  even  while 
she  said  in  her  heart,  "  A  lucky  escape  for  him  and  all 
of  us,  if  she  has  such  a  wilftd  disposition  ! — if  he  could 
only  see  it,  poor  fellow !"  she  could  not  help  saying 
soothingly  to  him,  "  It  could  be  only  a  girlish  freak, 
Herman.  She  must  love  you;  nobody  whom  you 
loved  so  could  help  it.  Depend  upon  it,  she  is  as  sorry 
as  you  are  already." 

"[N"©;  she  was  only  misled,  and  might  have  been 
undeceived,  perhaps,  at  first ;  but  she  has  a  high  spirit, 
and  I  am  afraid  that  my  hastiness  and  harshness  es- 
tranged her." 

"  Oh,  my  dearest  Herman  !  your  harshness  never 
estranged  a  kitten  !  If  she  deserves  you  and  would 
make  you  happy, — you  must  be  the  judge  of  that, — go 
to  her  directly,  and  she  will  be  only  too  glad  to  see 
you,  and  to  ask  your  pardon." 

*'  I  did  go  yesterday.     She  was  gone." 

"Gone!     Where?" 

"  Away.  To  her  aimt  in  Baltimore,  probably.  In 
the  afternoon,  I  strolled  down  again  towards  the  Re- 
vere House, — I  don't  know  why, — from  habit  partly,  I 
dare  say  ;  I  had  not  made  up  my  mind  to  go  in ; — and 
I  saw  her  trunks  go  by  on  a  railway  coach." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  might  be  mistaken  ?  Some 
one  else  might  have  the  same  initials."  * 

"  The  Yan  Rooselandts'  baggage  was  with  hers.  I 
saw  their  name  in  full.     'No  ;  she  was  determined  to 


86  HERMAN. 

place  herself  beyond  my  reach  once  for  all.  And  so 
that  story's  done,  my  Psyche  !  No  more  '  to  be  con- 
tinued !  We've  come  to  ugly  old  Finis  !'  as  I  used  to 
say,  when  we  read  fairy  tales  together." 

The  poor  youth  tried  to  smile  without  signal  suc- 
cess, sprang  up,  and  began  with  an  averted  face  to 
gather  together  his  books  and  replace  them  on  their 
shelves,  perhaps  to  give  himself  time  to  recover  his 
voice,  for  there  was  another  story  now  to  be  begun. 

Eeturning  presently  to  her  with  a  step  which 
seemed  almost  martial  in  his  strong  self-mastery,  he 
placed  her  beside  him  on  the  sofa.  She  told  me  some 
years  afterwards,  that  she  had  never  been  able  to  re- 
peat the  conversation  which  followed,  deep  as  was  the 
impression  which  it  made  and  left  upon  her,  and  pow- 
erfully as  it  had  affected  the  course  of  her  life  ever 
since.  She  said  :  "  It  was  as  if  I  had  been  sitting  on  a 
stone  some  day,  looking  up  into  the  sky,  expecting  and 
thinking  of  nothing  of  the  sort ;  and  all  at  once  heaven 
had  opened  over  my  head,  and  let  down  a  shower  of 
sounds  and  shown  a  swarm  of  sights,  such  as  I  had 
never  heard  nor  seen  before,  and  so  could  find  no 
words  for." 

In  words  firm,  but  low  and  brief,  for  egotism  w^as 
always  a  pain  to  him,  he  admitted  her  to  glimpses  of 
his  inmost  soul,  which,  stirred  to  its  depths  as  a  sea  by 
an  earthquake,  was  laying  bare  and  casting  up  all  its 
hoarded  treasures  before  the  Lord.  His  brief  enjoy- 
ment of  his  love,  he  showed  her,  had  made  an  intensity 
of  love  indispensable  to  him.  He  hungered  for  it, 
thirsted  for  it,  fainted  for  it.  "When  Constance's  was 
taken  from  hini,  he  could  think  of  nothing  earthly  that 
could  take  its  place ;  nothing  could  ever  take  its  place, 
except  the  love  of  God.     He  had  spent  the.  day  chiefly 


THE    KXIGHt's    YOW.  87 

in  carefully  examining  the  Xew  Testament  anew,  in 
order  to  find  out  precisely  on  what  terms  this  love  was 
to  be  obtained ;  and  "  here,"  said  he,  rising  and  bring- 
ing the  blotted  sheet  from  the  table,  "is  the  determina- 
tion to  which  I  have  come, — tried  to  come." 

He  turned  up  the  gas,  that  she  might  be  able  to 
read,  but  still  hesitated,  and  lingered  over  it.  She  took 
it  from  his  half-reluctant  but  yielding  hand,  and  read 
to  herself,  as  follows : 

"  ACT  OF  ENLISTMENT. 

"  My  Heavenly  Father  : 

"  For  the  sake  of  Thy  love,  and  the  love  of  Christ, 
and  the  gift  of  the  Holy  Spirit  offered  me  by  Thy  word, 
I  enlist  myself  to  serve  Thee  henceforth,  not  after  the 
fashion  of  these  slothful  and  degenerate  days,  which  I 
have  hitherto  most  shamefully  and  disloyally  followed, 
saying  I  go  and  going  not,  but  after  the  manner,  so 
far  as  in  me  lies  or  may  lie  in  the  future  by  Thy 
grace,  of  those  early  Christians,  worthy  of  the  name,  to 
whom  Thy  glad  tidings  of  great  joy  were  first  spoken ; 
in  body  and  in  soul ;  in  heart  and  in  life ;  in  deed, 
word,  thought,  and  feeling ;  bound  to  no  sect  or  party 
so  much  as  to  that  of  the  Twelve  and  their  Leader ;  in 
joy,  if  it  ever  comes  to  me  again,  and  in  sorrow; 
through  good  report,  and,  if  it  must  be,  through  evil 
report ;  without  reserve  ;  keeping  nothing  back  from 
Thy  treasury,  but  holding  in  instant  readiness  to  throw 
into  it,  as  Thou  mayest  draw  upon  ine,  property,  lei- 
sure, life,  and  every  power  of  the  body  and  the  soul ; 
resisting  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  whenever, 
wherever,  and  however  they  may  oppose  themselves 
to  me  in  Thy  paths,  after  the  pattern  held  up  to 
me  by  the  one  great  Master, — loving  Thee  with  all 


88  HERMAN. 

my  heart,  mind,  soul,  and  strength,  and  my  neighbour 
as  myself;  passing  each  day  as  if  summoned  already  to 
give  an  account  of  all  my  earthly  deeds  at  the  judg- 
ment-seat of  Christ  on  the  morrow;  and  doing  all 
which  Thou  dost  bless  me  with  power  to  do  to  bring 
about  the  coming  of  his  kingdom  of  light,  love,  and 
harmony,  in  this  poor,  blind,  deaf,  wrangling,  and  igno- 
rant world,  until  Thou  shalt  call  me  hence  to  a  higher 
and  holier  one ;  all  of  which  is  my  reasonable  service. 
"  Boston,  18—.  [Signed.]" 

"  Was  Herman  mad, — or  was  almost  everybody  else 
so  ? — But  there  was  little  in  the  paper,  thus  far,  but 
what  we  always  read  in  good  books,  and  heard  in  good 
sermons,  that  we  ought  to  do. — But  was  it  really  neces- 
sary to  do  it,  in  literal,  sober  earnest  ? — Did  anybody, — 
even  among  the  best  of  people,  could  anybody — more 
than  try  to  do  such  things,  now  and  then  ?  O,  how 
awful  it  was  !  What  had  got  into  Herman  ?"  Won- 
dering thus  within  herself  with  astonishment  deepen- 
ing into  terror,  Clara  ran  glancing  down  over  the  first 
page  ;  but,  turning  to  the  other  side  of  the  sheet,  she 
read,  with  a  sense  of  great  relief, 

"  Ko,  my  God  ;  I  dare  not  sign !  How  can  I  dare, 
fickle  and  weak  as  all  my  former  life  has  proved  me, 
to  run  the  risk  of  adding  the  sin  of  covenant-breaking 
with  Thee,  to  all  my  other  shortcomings  and  desertions? 
I  have  not  the  might  to  give  Thee  that  which  is  not 
mine  to  give  nor  to  withhold.  Sign  Thou  my  heart 
with  Thy  name,  and  hallow  me  to  Thyself;  and  stoop 
to  take  that  which  is  Thine  by  right  already,  but  w^hich 
is  too  low  and  weak  to  lift  itself  to  Thee.  Thou  with, 
whom  all  things  are  possible,  work  one  more  hard 
miracle,  and  admit  one  more  rich  man  into  the  king- 
dom of  heaven !" 


THE  knight's  vow.  89 

Clara  had  tliouglit  that  no  life  could  be  more  blame- 
less than  Herman's  hitherto ;  but,  judged  by  the 
standard  which  he  was  now  setting  up  for  himself,  or, 
if  he  was  right,  which  Christ  himself  had  set  up  for  his 
disciples,  even  his  conduct  had  been  imperfect ;  and 
as,  while  she  pondered  in  silence,  he  took  down  his  New 
Testament  again,  read  aloud  from  it,  and  commented 
upon  it,  her  suspicion  that  he  might  be  right  grew,  and 
grew  stronger,  and  the  solemn  conviction  came  upon 
her,  that  he  was  so.  As  he  said,  "  it  was  as  impossible 
as  undesirable  to  set  limits  to  the  mercy  of  God ;"  but, 
to  her  surprise,  they  did  not  find,  in  the  sacred  title- 
deeds  of  heaven,  that  it  was  secured,  or  offered,  to  them 
on  much  easier  terms  than  those  which  Herman  was 
endeavouring  to  accept. 

"  Herman,"  said  she  at  length,  reverently  lifting 
her  gentle  eyes  from  the  paper  to  his  face,  "  how  long 
have  you  seen  that  it  was  our  duty  actually  to  do 
aU  this?" 

"  ]J^ot  many  hours,  distinctly,  as  a  man,"  he  replied, 
"  though  I  think  I  did  as  a  child.  I  have  known  ob- 
scurely ever  since,  that  it  was  my  duty  to  inquire  and 
find  out  precisely  what  my  duty  was ;  but  I  could  not 
or  dared  not ;  I  was  too  hurried  or  too  happy."  He 
blushed  like  a  school-girl  detected  in  some  meanness, 
and  muttered  to  himself,  "  Selfish  coward  !  I  deserved 
to  lose  the  happiness  which  made  me  so  unfaithful  and 
ungrateful !" 

"  Don't,  don't  blame  yourself  so,  Herman !  You 
have  always  been  better  than  almost  anybody  else. 
Don't  think  God  is  displeased  with  you,  because  trou- 
ble has  come  to  you  through  no  fault  of  yours.  Don't 
you  remember  we  are  told,  that  'whom  the  Lord 
loveth  he  chasteneth'  ?     And  in  that  sermon  that  you 


90  HERMAN. 

liked  so  much,  on  that  very  text,  Dr.  Lovel  said  that 
'  sorrows  had  often  proved  to  be  among  the  ver^^  best 
earthly  blessings  which  God  sent'  to  His  saintliest 
children,  and  that  He  gave  a  double  portion  of  them 
to  His  best  and  dearest  Son.'  " 

Herman's  smile  shone  out,  but  clouded  in  again,  as 
he  answered,  "  Thank  you,  dearest ;  but  they  are  sent 
to  sinners  too ;  though  even  then  I  believe  it  is  in 
mercy.  But  I  have  saddened  you  long  enough  with 
my  difficulties  and  regrets.  I  have  always  been  too 
much  in  the  habit  of  thinking  of  myself ;  and  now  that 
this  blow  has  fallen  upon  me,  I  must  rouse  myself,  and 
learn  to  think  of  others." 

"  Will  you  hear  a  little  good  advice,  for  the  sake  of 
one  other  ?" 

"  Hear  it,  at  least,"  said  he,  good-humoredly. 

"Then  go  to  bed  now;  for  you  look  quite  worn  out, 
and  Edward  says  you  did  not  sleep  well  last  night ;" — 

"  I'm  sorry  if  I  disturbed  him." 

"Oh,  he  did  not  care,  except  on  your  account ;  he 
made  up  for  it  this  morning ; — and  then  let  me  come 
back  and  read  you  to  sleep,  as  I  used  to  do ;  and  to- 
morrow, pack  your  valise,  and  set  off  on  a  little 
journey." 

"I  was  thinking  of  that ;  though  it  will  have  to  be 
two  valises,  instead  of  one,  for  the  journey  is  not  to  be 
a  little  one.     I  am  going  to  the  Kocky  Mountains." 

"  To  the  Kocky  Mountains  ?" 

"  And  further,  too,  perhaps.  Bear's-meat  is  good 
for  the  vapors.  You  remember  the  queer,  quaint  old 
fellow  I  brought  in  to  dinner  a  fortnight  ago, — Mr. 
Grubb,  the  Indian  antiquary  ?" 

"  Quite  well." 

"  Part  of  his  object  in  coming  back  to  civilization, 


THE     knight's    YOW.  91 

besides  his  natural  desire  to  taste  what  he  calls  his 
'  native  Indian-pudding  and  pandowdy '  once  more  be- 
fore he  died,  was  to  get  some  lawyer  to  go  out  there 
with  him,  to  look  up  the  claims  of  some  of  his  favorite 
Gray-Buffalo  Indians  to  some  hunting-grounds  of  theirs, 
which  he  says  a  cheating  land-company  are  trying  to 
cozen  them  out  of  at  Washington.  As  neither  he  nor 
his  copper-colored  friends  have  much  pay  to  offer,  this 
part  of  his  undertaking  has  not  prospered.  The  busi- 
ness requires  a  little  technical  legal  knowledge; and 
part  of  it  can  be  done  only  by  a  person  who  has  been 
on  the  spot.  Old  Mr.  Andrews,  who  has  knoWn  him, 
and  all  about  him,  from  a  boy,  says  he  is  a  thoroughly 
upright  and  trustworthy  man,  and  deserves  credit  and 
assistance.     Therefore,  I  think  I  shall  volunteer." 

"  "When  should  you  go  ?" 

"  This  week, — the  sooner,  the  better !  I  do  not 
know  what  day.  I  must  send  him  a  note  this  evening, 
and  find  out." 

She  was  going.  He  held  out  his  hand  hastily  for 
the  paper. 

"  May  not  I  have  it  a  few  minutes  more  ?"  she 
pleaded,  "  and  copy  it, — for  Edward  and  me  ?  You 
know  how  sacredly  and  secretly  we  would  both  of  us 
keep  it.  Dear  Herman,  it  concerns  both  of  us  as 
mjich  as  it  does  you.  You  would  not  wish  to  leave  us 
behind  you  on  your  way  to  heaven." 

He  yielded;  but  she  did  not  guess  what  a  sacrifice 
he  was  making.  It  was  the  first-fruits  of  his  new  self- 
abnegation.  She  went  to  Edward,  told  him  as  much 
as  she  could,  showed  him  the  paper,  and,  looking  up 
doubtfully  and  timidly  through  her  long  lashes,  to  see 
how  he  regarded  her  communication,  saw  his  calm  eyes 
full  of  unwonted  and  tender  emotion,  and   his  face 


92  HERMAN. 

illuminated  as  if  a  holy  lamp  shone  upon  it.  The 
elder  brother  was  very  different  from  the  younger; 
but  his  spirit  often  bowed  down  in  secret  to  do  him 
homage. 

Herman's  bell  rang ;  and  Patrick,  the  man-servant, 
was  dispatched  with  a  note  to  the  lodgings  of  Mr. 
Grubb,  and  presently  brought  back  word  that  he 
would  be  glad  to  start  at  half-past  eight  the  next 
morning. 

Herman  fell  asleep  that  night  like  a  tired  martyr 
sung  to  sleep  by  a  duet  of  angels ;  for  Clara,  sitting 
where 'he  could  see  her  pure,  and  just  now  earnest  and 
inspired  countenance,  between  his  closing  ej^elids, 

**  Lent  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  beauty  of  her  voice," 

and  read  to  him  the  poems  of  the  sweet  and  holy  Her- 
bert,— that  strange,  unearthly  writer  baptized  in  the 
mingled  waters  of  Siloam  and  of  Castaly, — the  very 
imperfection  of  whose  language  heightens  perhaps  the 
peculiar  effect  of  his  heavenly  thoughts,  by  making 
them  seem  the  foreign  broken  utterance  of  some  way- 
faring seraph,  who  has  scarcely  had  enough  to  do  with 
this  world  to  learn  our  tongue. 

At  first,  his  dreams  tool  a  soft  and  glowing  hue 
from  the  sweet  voice  and  lines.  He  thought  that,  after 
a  dim,  groping  struggle,  and  a  battle,  painful  but 
strangely  short,  with  half-seen  foes,  who,  though  seem- 
ingly terrific  of  aspect  and  sometimes  giving  him  sharp 
stabs,  for  the  most  part  turned  to  thin  air  and  van- 
ished as  he  successively  grappled  with  them,  he  had 
broken  through  them  all,  and  into  heaven,  which  had 
all  the  time  been  nearer  to  him  than  he  knew.  He 
was  lying  to  take  breath  and  rest  for  a  few  moments 


THE    EinGHx's    VOW.  93 

under  a  palm-tree ;  while  rapturous  bursts  of  recogni- 
tion and  congratulations  of  new-comers,  bj  their  fami- 
lies and  friends,  were  going  on  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment all  about  him ;  and  Herbert  himself,  a  noble  old 
harper  with  a  beard  of  silver,  sang  a  grand  song  of 
welcome  and  triumph  in  the  mighty  chorus  of  which 
all  the  angels  who  flew  by  and  across  him  joined,  just 
as  they  happened  to  pass,  as  if  it  was  most  familiar  to 

them ; 

**With  sin  and  the  sinning 
His  warfare  is  o'er ! 
The  earth  drops  beneath  him, 
And  heaven  stands  before ! '» 

He  could  not  yet  look  up  to  see  them  freely ;  for, 
having  just  come  out  of  darkness  to  great  light,  he 
was  dazzled  ;  but  to  and  fro  their  pinions  fanned  him 
with  a  pleasant  thrill,  and  their  shadows  continually 
hurried  over  him,  and  over  the  asphodel  turf  about 
him,  as  those  of  clouds  do  over  the  hills  on  a  sunny, 
breezy  summer  morning;  and  by  the  flitting  and 
glancing  of  these  shadows  of  theirs,  he  could  perceive 
that  they  were  darting  about,  and  up  and  down,  on 
their  various  errands,  with  the  eager  spontaneq-usuess 
and  rejoicing  buoyancy  of  sportive  birds.  All  possible 
failure  or  suffering  lay  beneath  him  now.  Everlasting 
love  and  joy  were  won.  To-morrow  was  a  word  of  fear 
no  more,  but  of  certain  transport ;  and  every  instant 
he  was  listening  for  the  coming  of  the  Saviour,  who  was 
to  raise  him  up  and  strengthen  him  to  bear  the  new 
weight  of  his  overwhelming  happiness. 

He  woke.  All  was  still;  and  the  light  was  extin- 
guished. Clara  was  gone  ;  and  he  remembered  that  he 
was  about  to  leave  even  the  roof  that  sheltered  her,  and 
that  his  Constance  had   abandoned  him    and  set  her 


94  HERMAN. 

face  against  him.  The  room  seemed  like  a  tomb.  In 
this  life,  there  must  be  some  such  wakings.  Alas  for 
the  darker  and  more  fearful  awakening  to  be  feared  for 
souls  who,  too  cowardly  to  bear  such  as  these  with 
courage,  hurry  from  them  with  suicidal  and  illicit 
flight  into  the  untimely  and  unsanctioned  sleep  of 
death  ! 

He  struggled,  nerved  himself,  and  slept  anew  ;  but 
now  all  was  dark  within  him.  He  seemed  to  be  nailed, 
a  penitent  malefactor,  to  the  cross,  hanging  between 
heaven  and  earth.  Darkness  w^s  above  him,  and  Gol- 
gotha below  ;  but  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  overhang- 
ing cloud,  which  intercepted  every  ray  of  light  from 
him  and  the  fellow-sufferers  whom  he  heard,  though  he 
could  not  see,  groaning  at  his  side,  he  looked  out  into 
a  weary  and  interminable  day.  Life  went  on,  near 
him,  though  apart.  Children  played  in  the  streets. 
They  grew.  They  were  youths  and  maidens.  They 
were  men  and  women.  They  married.  They  toiled. 
They  reared  children  in  their  turn.  They  grew  gray. 
They  sickened.  They  gave  up  the  ghost.  He  saw 
their  funerals  go  by,  and  their  children's  children  bear 
their  palls  ;  and  still  the  interminable  day  went  on,  and 
could  not  end ;  for  still  the  pitiless  sun  shone  on,  and 
would  not  go  down ;  and  still  he  could  not  die.  Then 
at  last,  through  the  thick  gloom  at  his  side,  he  heard 
the  expiring  voice  of  Christ  shriek  out,  "  My  God,  my 
God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me !"  With  the  bound 
he  gave  in  his  agony,  he  overset  his  cross.  It  fell  'jpon 
him  ;  and  as  he  came  to  himself,  with  cold  horror 
oozing  from  him  at  every  pore,  and  found  himself  in 
his  own  chamber  and  lying  in  his  bed,  it  was  at  first 
with  a  nightmare  sense  of  material  pressure  on  his 
body,  head,  and  limbs, — the  trace  left  behind,  by  the 
conflicts  of  the  preceding  days,  on  his  every  nerve. 


THE   knight's  vow.  95 

Poor  youtli !  Invigorated  as  he  had  been  already, 
in  muscle  and  mind,  bj  the  healthful  activity  of  his 
stripling  years,  the  sensitiveness  and  excitability,  en- 
tailed upon  him  by  earlier  mismanagement,  were  in- 
deed a  heavy  cross  for  him  to  bear  through  life  ;  but 
at  least  he  rose  under  it,  and  carried  it  off  manfully. 
His  alarm-clock  struck  six.  He  sprang  from  his  bed, 
lighted  his  gas,  took  a  stinging  cold  bath,  dressed  with 
his  usual  neatness  but  much  more  than  his  usual  speed, 
and  bustled  briskly  through  the  completion  of  his 
packing. 


96  HEKMAN. 


CHAPTER     VI. 

THE    ANGEL    OF    THE    HEARTH. 

'*A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command." 

Wordsworth. 
"Obedient  Yamen 

Answered,  Amen; 

And  did 

As  he  was  bid." 

Rejected  Addresses. 

Herman  ran  down  to  the  dining-room  for  the  roll 
and  cup  of  solitary  tea,  with  which  he  had  requested 
Miss  D alley,  whose  versatility  was  at  present  officiating 
as  sub-housekeeper  and  head-cook,  to  supply  him. 
Quite  an  astonishing  whiiFof  warmth  and  glare  of  fire- 
light came  in  his  face,  as  he  opened  the  door  ;  and,  at 
the  table, — a  still  further  and  more  agreeable  surprise, 
— sat  Clara !  He  had  taken  leave  of  her  and  Edward 
both,  the  night  before,  and  had  had  no  expectation  of 
seeing  either  of  them  again  for  months ;  for  nine  o'clock 
was  usually,  at  this  season,  their  very  earliest  time  of 
appearing  in  the  morning ;  but  there  she  was,  in  her 
home-like  dark-blue  merino,  presiding  over  a  larger 
quantity  and  variety  of  muffins,  eggs,  ham,  cutlets, 
fresh  butter,  corn-bread,  toast,  tea,  coffee,  jam  and 
honey,  than  the  frugal  Sally  usually  found  it  necessary 
to  administer  to  her  somewhat  abstemious  consumers  in 
the  breakfasts  of  a  whole  week.  The  aspect  of  the 
comfortable  and  hospitable  apartment  offered  a  most 
inspiriting  contrast  to  that  of  the  chill,  dusky,  lonely 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HEAKTH.  97 

chamber  which  he  had  jnst  left,  disordered  with  the 
6tir  of  flitting,  and  still  haunted  by  the  spectres  of  the 
night. 

Clara  was  eager  to  see  him  do  justice  to  her  good 
cheer.  Beginning  to  do  so  to  please  her,  his  healthy 
appetite,  returning,  presently  showed  what  arrears  it 
had  to  make  up  ;  and  he  went  on  to  please  himself, 
and  soon  looked  and  felt  a  diflerent  creature  from  the 
h^^pochondriac  dreamer  of  two  hours  before,  and  was 
conscious  of  the  pleasant  stirring  within  him  of  a  little 
^f  the  young-manly  spirit  of  adventure. 

It  was  going  to  be  his  tmTi  now,  however,  to  ad- 
minister a  small  portion  of  consolation.  Clara  had 
poured  out  a  cup  of  milk  for  herself,  and  allowed  him 
to  put  one  or  two  things  on  her  plate  ;  and,  if  she  took 
very  little  off,  she  explained  it  by  saying  that,  in  order 
to  be  quite  impartial,  she  ought  to  eat  half  her  break- 
fast with  one  of  her  brothers  and  the  other  half  with 
the  other.  Meanwhile,  she  blithely  pressed  him  with, 
"  Another  egg  ?  Yours  was  tiny  enough  for  a  pigeon's. 
Another  cup  of  tea  \  Xot  half  a  cup  ?  That  little 
brown  corner  of  corn  bread  ?  A  spoonful  of  jam  ?  Let 
me  give  you  a  little  more  honey,  to  finish  your  toast 
with," — till  she  could  prevail  no  further  and  saw  him, 
in  a  traveller's  bustling  fashion,  beginning  to  push  back 
his  chair  and  compare  his  repeater  with  the  Time- 
piece,  as  they  called  the  bronze  clock  among  them- 
selves, from  its  having  a  figure  of  the  old  destroyer 
upon  it.  Then  she  rose  and  moved  towards  him, 
checked  herself  and  turned  to  the  fire,  but,  squeezing 
and  almost  wringing  her  hands  as  slie  pretended  to 
warm  them,  she  said  quite  unintentionally,  "  Don't 
you  think,  Herman,  you  should  find  it  more  convenient 
to  wait  and  go  to-morrow  ?" 
5 


98  HERMAN. 

"  Have  yon  never  noticed,  dear  Psyche^'— said  he, 
lookinf^  np  at  her  as  he  pnlled  on  his  boots  with  a  sort 
of  pensive,  wistful  hnnior  in  his  face,  which  peculiarly 
belonged  to  it,  "it  is  odd,  isn't  it? — that,  when  to- 
morrow is  always  so  much  the  most  convenient  day  for 
doing  everything  disagreeable,  nothing  ever  actually 
gets  done  but  what  we  do  to-day  ?" 

She  returned  his  smile  as  gaily  as  she  knew  how  ; 
but  it  so  happened  that,  while  she  was  using  all  her 
efforts  with  her  red  lips  to  make  them  spread  that 
signal  of  gladness,  her  bright  eyes  altogether  forgot 
themselves  and  were  so  heedless  as  to  drop  two  great 
diamonds  in  plain  sight.  It  occurred  to  selfish  Herman, 
for  the  first  time,  that  he  was  not  to  be  the  only  suf- 
ferer from  his  own  departure. 

"Why,  Clara!"  exclaimed  he,  "  O,  fie!  What 
are  you  watering  your  blue  forget-me-nots  for?" 

He  stood  holding  one  of  her  little  hands  in  each  of 
his.  She  smiled  again,  though  dimly.  Her  smile  al- 
ways set  a  bewitching  round  dimple  in  her  left  clieek, 
a  perfect  kiss-trap.  He  put  his  lips  to  it  an  instant. 
She  thought  they  trembled ;  and  that  trifling  symptom 
of  momentary  faltering  in  his  resolution  strengthened 
hers.  What  a  slianie,  when  he  had  just  succeeded  in 
rallying  his  spirits  a  little,  for  her  to  grieve  him  again ! 
Could  she  not  wait  ten  minutes  more,  send  him 
off  in  good  heart,  and  then  cry  as  much  as  she 
pleased  ? 

"  Morning  dew-drops  make  forget-me-nots  look  all 
the  prettier  ;  have  you  never  noticed  that  .^"  said  she, 
archly,  finding  her  voice  instantly,  and  looking  bravely 
and  brightly  up  into  his  face. 

"  God  bless  you  !  keep  the  sunshine  in  yours." 

"  And  when  shall  we  see  you  come  back,  with  your 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HEARTH.  99 

tanned  travelling  face,  and  the  horrid  shaggy  beard 
you'll  catch  among  the  buffaloes  ?" 

"  As  soon  as  I  can,  yon  may  be  snre.  In  time  f *  r 
Sea  Farm,  I  hope ;  and,  while  I  am  gone,  I  shall 
write,  and  you  will,  too,  every  week,  won't  you  ?  I'll 
send  you  word  where  to  direct." 

"  indeed  I  will ;  and  so  shall  Xed." 

"  Don't  make  rash  promises,  Miss  ; — keep  that  one, 
though,  now  that  it  is  made.  Where  in  the  world  is 
that  Gum  mage?" 

Patrick,  commonly  called  behind  his  back  "  Gura- 
mage,"  (having  earned  his  alias  by  his  fancied  resem- 
blance to  that  pensive  "  Angel  in  the  House  "  of  Mr. 
Peggotty,)  had  gone  to  call  a  coach,  which  he  forgot  to 
do  at  the  proper  time.  As  the  bell  rang  again,  and 
harder,  he  made  his  grotesque  appearance  at  the  door 
in  enforced  silence,  with  one  of  Herman's  valises  in 
each  hand   and  an  umbrella  in  his  month. 

*'The  coach  there,  Patrick?  All  right.  Put 
them  in." 

A  hurried  embrace  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Clara 
had  let  him  go,  and  stood  by  herself,  wondering  how 
she  had  ever  made  np  her  mind  to  do  it.  He  was 
shaking  hands  with  Sally  in  the  hall.  The  horses'  bells 
jingled.  She  peeped  through  the  window-curtains. 
He  was  gone.  She  proceeded  to  cry  as  much  as  she 
■pleased,  according  to  her  ijrogramme,  for  a  few  min- 
utes ;  but  then  she  heard  Edward  call  for  his  shaving- 
water;  and  it  occurred  to  her  that,  as  it  might  take  her 
some  time  to  leave  off,  she  had  better  begin  to  do  so  at 
once.  She  ran  up  to  her  dressing-room,  bathed  her 
eyes,  fed  her  canary,  hummed  the  prettiest  air  she 
knew,  watered  her  fuchsias  and  myrtles,  and  had  her 
sorrows  put  out  of  sight    if  not  out  of  mind,  before 


100  HERMAN. 

that  young  Sybarite  required  her  to  pour  out  his 
coft'ee. 

Everybody  knows  how  long  a  day  is,  which  is  be- 
gun in  this  manner.  "When  Patrick  had  <?arried  off 
his  tea-cups  and  saucers,  and  Edward  had  sauntered 
away  to  see  if  there  was  anything  new  and  gratifying 
to  be  found  at  the  hospital,  the  room  looked  strangely 
empty,  dull,  and  formal.  She  unlocked  her  own  par- 
ticular private  drawer  in  the  French-desk,  took  out  her 
copy  of  Herman's  paper,  sat  down  in  her  high-backed 
low  chair  with  it,  read  it  once  more,  as  her  only  pres- 
ent means  of  hearing  from  him,  began  to  consider  how 
she  might  best  act  upon  it  in  her  own  case,  and  looked 
from  it  thoughtfully  into  tlie  fire.  The  fire  gave  her  a 
hint :  Certainly.  What  a  comfort  it  was  to  have  a  lit- 
tle light  and  warmth  to  turn  to  on  such  a  snowy, 
dreary,  home-sick  sort  of  day  !  She  rose,  returned  to 
the  desk,  took  from  her  pocket-book  a  bank-bill,  en- 
closed it  to  one  of  the  city-missionaries  with  the  simple 
direction,  "  For  fuel  for  the  poor,"  gave  it  to  Patrick 
to  deliver,  and  took  up  her  embroidery,  feeling  better. 

The  clock  ticked ;  the  ashes  sifted  whispering  from 
the  grate  ;  while  still  she,  in  a  needle-woman's  desul- 
tory fashion,  pondered,  as  slie  wrought,  on  the  con- 
tents of  the  paper.  Accustomed  as  she  had  been  from 
earlier  times  than  she  could  remember,  to  do  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  whatever  she  saw  that  it  was  proper  for 
her  to  do,  she  was  well-practised  in  the  alphabet  and 
Orb-abs  by  which  she  was  now  to  read  the  first  lessons 
of  a  higher  obedience.  She  was  not  perplexed  by  the 
question,  which  so  often  convulses  less  docile  minds 
when  duties  present  themselves,  To  do  or  not  to  do? 
but  only  by  that  much  less  perturbing  question,  to 
which  an  answer  may  almost  always  be  found  by  a  sin- 


THE     AXGEL     OF    TIIE    HEARTH.  101 

cere  inquirer,  What  to  do  ?  Slie  was  generous  and 
devoted,  and  lived  almost  wholly  in  her  affections, — 
her  religious  affections  among  the  rest,  though  hitherto 
they  had  been  much  more  sentimental  than  practical. 

Herman  had  read  to  her  the  evening  before,  with 
that  awe-struck  earnestness  of  his,  which  gave  such 
thrilling  reality  and  power  to  the  dead  letter,  that 
most  solemn  and  tender  declaration,  which  was  hence- 
forth to  be  the  key-note  of  his  life,  "  Inasmuch  as  ye 
have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren, 
ye  have  done  it  unto  me.*'  Xow,  if  she  had  reason  to 
believe  that  her  Saviour  himself  was  in  Boston  at  that 
time,  in  sickness,  poverty,  or  any  distress  which  she 
could  relieve,  she  felt  that  it  would  have  been  impos- 
sible for  her  to  content  herself  to  sit  down  so  indo- 
lently day  after  day  in  that  warm,  luxurious  room, 
without  a  single  effort  in  his  behalf;  but  that  she 
must  have  hurried  out  with  eager  inquiries  to  find  him, 
lavish  upon  him  her  superabundance,  and  do  her  very 
utmost  to  soothe  and  comfort  him.  Yet  she  had  been 
contented  to  amuse  herself  thus  there  day  after  day, 
while  there  was  only  too  much  reason  to  fear  that 
some,  whom  he  would  hereafter  affectionately  welcome 
as  brothers  and  sisters,  must  be  continually  suffering 
near  her,  from  all  those  evils  and  furthermore  from  the 
thoughtless  neglect  of  self-indulgent  triflers  like  her. 
What  should  she  do  about  them  now? — go  out  alone 
and  unguided  to  seek  for  them  ?  She  did  not  think 
that  that  was  exactly  l;he  thincr.  She  might  be  im- 
posed upon,  and  do  more  harm  than  good  ;  and,  be- 
sides, she  was  pretty  sure  that  Edward  wouM  not  like 
it.  Perhaps  Dr.  Brodie  would  know  of  some  among 
his  poorer  patients,  who  would  be  the  better  for  some 
little  delicacies,  books,  or  a  happy  face  looking  in  upon 


102  HEKMAN. 

tliem  now  and  then  ;  and  if  they  needed  money,  so 
much  the  better  ;  for  she  had  a  good  deal  more  than 
she  knew  what  to  do  with.  She  would  send  in  for  him 
and  his  wife  to  drink  tea  with  her  that  very  evening, 
and  ask  him. 

Then,  model  yonng  ladies  in  edifying  English  nov- 
els taught  gratuitously  in  schools  continually.  That, 
again,  did  not  seem  precisely  the  thing  for  her ; — every- 
thing here  was  so  different.  She  lauglied  quietly  to 
herself  at  the  idea  of  the  probable  consternation  of  the 
teachers  of  any  one  of  the  Boston  Public  Schools,  at  the 
tall  apparition  of  the  stylish  and  fashionable  Miss  Ar- 
den,  coming  in,  long  after  prayers  and  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  "mental  arithmetic"  and  so-forth,  to  offer  to 
hear  the  children  say  their  texts  or  to  instruct  them  in 
the  catechism.  Another  good  suggestion  !  The  Knee- 
land-street  Sewing-school.  She  had  heard  her  friend 
Kate  Lee  wishing  that  she  had  some  one  to  take  her 
class  there,  while  she  went  for  a  few  weeks  to  Phila- 
delphia. She  wo'uld  offer  her  services ;  wliy  did  she 
not  think  of  that  before  ? — and  perhaps  she  should  dis- 
cover some  of  the  deserving  panpers  she  was  in  search 
of  among  the  parents  of  her  pupils.  She  wrote  her  two 
notes  to  Mrs.  Brodie  and  Miss  Lee,  and  returned  to  her 
seat  and  her  musings. 

She  had  given  a  little  money,  which  she  did  not 
want.  She  was  going  to  give  a  little  time.  That  was 
all  very  well ;  but  was  it  enough  ?  She  recollected 
something,  which  she  had  once  heard  her  old  friend 
Dr.  Lovel  say, in  a  sermon  on  the  high-hearted  excla- 
mation of  David  when  the  equally  generous  Araunah 
offered  him  as  a  gift  all  that  he  required  for  a  sacri 
fice,  "  ISTay,  but  I  will  surely  buy  it  of  thee  at  a  price. 
Neither  will  I  offer  bnrnt-offerings  nnto  the  Lord  my 


THE    AXGEL    OF    THE    IlEAIJTn.  1(»8 

God  of  that  which  doth  cost  me  nothinix."  The  re\'- 
erend  old  gentleman  had  said  that,  thonoh  in  his  oj-in- 
ion  we  were  scarcely  called  upon  to  sadden  our  service 
of  God  and  man  by  any  self-imposed  austerities  for 
Austerity's  sake,  yet  that  no  Christian,  in  the  nio^t 
prosperous  lot,  could  thoroughly  fulfil  all  the  duties  to 
which  Proyidence  called  him  without  much  self-de- 
niah  It  had  puzzled  lier  a  little  at  the  time  and  did 
60  now  much  more,  as  she  recurred  to  it  with  deejiicr 
earnestness.  She  knew  he  was  much  more  likely  to 
be  right  than  she ;  for  he  had  had  much  experience  in 
his  long  life,  and  was  a  man  of  much  sagacity  as  well 
as  of  saintly  excellence.  But  she  could  hardly  remem- 
ber anything  in  particular  that  she  had  considered  her 
duty,  which  she  would  not  rather  do  than  not. 

Suddenly  the  thought  struck  her,  that  she  had 
never  been  quite  so  attentive  as  a  good  sister  ought  to 
be  to  her  sister,  ]Mrs.  Flint,  and  that  she  had  now 
neither  seen  nor  heard  of  her  for  two  or  three  weeks. 
A  struggling  sunbeam  fell  upon  the  carpet  beside  her. 
She  heard  the  snow-shovels  without,  scraping  the 
brick  side-y:alJiS.  It  was  clearing  up,  though  the 
wind  still  sounded  bleak  and  bitter.  She  would  put 
her  work  away  immediately  and  take  a  good,  brisk, 
freshening  walk  to  Blackstone  Square,  which  would  be 
a  benefit  to  two  worthy  females  at  once  and  most  sat- 
isfactorily disagreeable  to  one  of  them.  She  was  soon 
safely  secreted  in  her  muffling  furs  and  shaggy  little 
snow-boots,  and  on  her  way. 

Her  half-sister,  Catherine,  had  been  brought  up 
many  miles  away  in  the  country,  by  two  rustic  mater- 
nal aunts,  who  were  displeased  by  Mr.  Arden's  speedy 
second  marriage,  kept  her  to  themselves,  and  never  pro- 
moted  much   intercourse   between  her  and  his  other 


104  HERMAN. 

children.  Her  mother  had  been  a  rather  pleasing  ex- 
ception in  a  rather  impleasing,  though  otherwise  un- 
objectionable family  circle.  She  was  a  little  rustic 
helle^  with  whom  he  accidentally  tumbled  in  love  when 
a  boy  rusticated  from  college,  to  whom  he  engaged 
himself,  to  the  intense  disgust  of  the  elder  nobles  of  his 
house,  (the  house  of  Arden,  Duke  &  Company,  mer- 
chant-princes,) and  whom  he  married  seven  years  later, 
from  a  sense  of  honor  quite  as  much  as  of  aftection  ; 
tliough  he  carefully  retained  a  moderate  degree  of 
that.  The  second  Mrs.  Arden, — one  of  those  tho- 
roughly dear  women,  whose  pleasure  it  is  to  begin  at 
the  beginning,  and  do  every  one  of  their  duties  as  gra- 
ciously and  gladly  as  they  do  everything  else, — felt  her 
heart  warm  towards  her  husband's  little  orphan  when, 
two  or  three  weeks  after  their  marriage,  she  first  heard 
of  her ;  would  fain  have  taken  her  for  her  own,  and, 
failing  in  that,  sent  many  little  gifts  and  most  sweet 
little  notes  to  her  "  dear  little  daughter,"  never  for- 
getting to  insert  in  them  courteous  messages  to  her 
protectresses,  which  by  degrees  mollified  them  so  much, 
that  the  child  was  to  have  been  dispatched  to  pay  her 
a  visit  on  the  very  Thanksgiving  to  which  she  was  re- 
turning, when  she  was  killed.  After  that,  there  was 
little  more  intercourse  between  Catherine  and  her 
father's  household,  than  a  formal  interchange  of  letters 
from  him  to  her,  and  her  to  him,  once  a  quarter.  She 
seldom  came  to  town  ;  and  when  she  did  so,  usually, 
according  to  a  custom  established  during  the  lifetime 
of  the  third  Mrs.  Arden,  stayed  with  an  old  widow, 
a  cousin  of  her  mother's,  at  the  North  End.  She  felt 
bashful,  awkward,  and  out  of  place,  in  the  elegant  Co- 
tablishment  of  her  silent  and  abstracted  father,  and  it 
never  came  into  her  head, — she  was  not  original,  and 


THE     AXGEL    OF    THE    IIEAETH.  105 

nobody  bad  T^iit  it  into  her  head, — that  it  -^onld  be 
well  for  her  to  endeavour  to  show  an  older  sister's  soli- 
citude and  tenderness, — and  thus  repay  some  part  of 
the  debt  of  gratitude  which  she  owed  their  mother, — 
to  the  fair,  self-possessed,  magnificent  boy  and  girl, 
who  seemed  so  sufficient  to  themselves  and  to  one  an- 
other, and  who,  when  summoned  to  the  parlor  to  enter- 
tain her,  did  the  honors  with  a  mingled  ease  and 
reserve  which  would  not  have  misbecome  a  prince  and 
princess.  Soon  after  her  fathers  death, — as  soon,  al- 
most, as  it  was  ascertained  that  he  had  left  her  fifty 
thousand  dollars, — she  was  married.  Mr.  Flint's  vul- 
garity— "  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it" — of  man- 
ner, made  him  veiy  distasteful  to  her  sister  and  bro- 
thers, and  his  vulgarity  of  mind,  more  particularly  so  to 
Herman  ;  while  her  own  rusticity  and  the  mild,  insipid 
eaii-siicree  of  her  appearance  and  character,  ofiered  few 
counterbalancing  attractions  to  their  pampered  disrel- 
ish of  commonplace. 

Near  relations,  however,  like  coupled  hounds,  can, 
from  the  very  stringency  of  the  tie  which  binds  them 
to  each  other,  scarcely  avoid  being  not  quite  indiffer- 
ent to  each  other ;  they  can  take  their  choice  only  be- 
tween being  friends  or  foes.  The  feeling,  which  was 
negative  on  the  part  of  the  calm  Ardens,  was  by  this 
time,  after  a  hardly-conscious  succession  of  slights  from 
them, — some  real,  and  some  naturally  imagined  in 
consequence, — in  a  fair  way  to  become  very  positive  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Flint,  whom  Xature  (or,  as  he  would 
have  poetically  said,  '  ^atur^'^)  had  made  a  good  hater. 
Catherine's  heart  was  incapable  of  rancor  towards  any 
creature  ;  but  its  general  lukewarmness  was  certainly 
growing  colder  on  the  side  towards  her  father's  family, 
under  the  influence  of  her  husband  upon  her  mind, 
5* 


106  HEKMAN. 

wliicli  was  of  that  colorless,  chameleon  sort,  that  gen- 
erally takes  its  hue  of  opinion  irom  any  other  mind  at 
the  moment  nearest.  Matters  were  thus  quite  in  train 
for  that  pretty  and  creditahle  thing,  a  family  feud. 
Clara  bestirred  herself  none  too  soon ;  though  she 
never  knew  or  even  suspected  how  much  petty  annoy- 
ance, or  worse,  was  saved  to  her  and  hers  by  her  tardy 
promptness.  Who,  that  walks  nnpricked  and  nnstung 
in  the  straight  path,  ever  can  discern  or  calculate  the 
number  of  briars  or  scorpions  that  were  lying  in  wait 
for  his  erring  foot,  on  the  right-hand  or  on  the  left  ? 

Mrs.  Flint's  door  was  opened  to  Clara  by  a  wild- 
looking  Irish  girl,  with  smut  on  her  face,  suds  on  her 
arms,  and  a  rent  in  her  duster-colored  apron.  She  un- 
derstood the  Englisli  language  but  imperfectly, — well 
enough  only  to  tell  fibs  in  it.  (When  St.  Patrick  ex- 
terminated the  reptiles  among  the  shamrocks,  did  he 
drop  and  leave  behind  the  serpent's  tongue  there  ? — 
and  if  so,  why  ?)  The  Irish  dialect  was  not  among  the 
number  of  Clara's  fashionable  acquirements.  Therefore 
was  the  information  possessed  by  the  handmaiden  eli- 
cited but  slowly,  after  the  merciful  fashion  generally  in 
vogue  in  refined  circles  when  anybody  is  doomed  to 
hear  a  piece  of  bad  news,  which  consists  in  the  linger- 
ing process  of  piling  deliberately  up  upon  one  another 
a  sort  of  ascending  scale  of  dolorous  lies,  each  one  a 
little  nearer  the  heart  of  the  hearer  than  the  last,  until 
at  length  the  truth  is  brought  up  to  give  the  final  stab ; 
■ — a  method  similar  to  that  pursued  by  the  ingeniously 
compassionate,  imported  man-servant  of  a  fellow-citi- 
zen of  ours,  who,  when  ordered  to  cut  off  the  tail  of 
his  dog,  considerately  deprived  him  of  it  only  an  inch 
at  a  time :  "  Miss  Flint  wa'n't  to  home. — She  was  en- 
gaged most  partic'lar. — She  was  sick  to  her  bed,  and 


TlIK     ANGEL    OF    THE    IIEAETII.  107 

couldn't  see  nobody,  indade, — not  if  'twas  tlie  Pris- 
ident." 

As  it  was  not  the  President,  Clara  thought  that  ad- 
mittance miglit  perhaps  be  obtained.  She  was  anxious, 
and  grieved  besides.  It  was  a  proof  and  r^'proof  at 
once  of  her  past  remissness,  that  her  own  father's 
daughter  should  be  lying  sick  so  near  her,  and  she, 
know  it  only  by  chance,  and  then  be  forced  to  stand 
thus  parleying,  a  stranger  with  a  stranger,  at  her 
door. 

"  Won't  you  say  it  is  Miss  Arden  ?" 

"Miss  Harding?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  Miss  Arden.     Can't  you  say  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sure.  Miss." 

"  Try  again,  then,  and  let  me  hear  you." 

"  Miss  Andiron." 

"  Ko ;  say  Mrs.  Flint's  sister.  How  unlucky  that 
I  did  not  bring  my  cards  1  Be  so  good  as  to  get  me  a 
piece  of  paper  and  a  pen." 

"Is  it  a  pin.  Miss?" 

"  "What  did  you  say  was  the  matter  with  Mrs. 
Flint  ?" 

"  "Well,  indade,  and  I  think  they  said  it  was  just  the 
pla-gue.  Miss,"  returned  the  Or])hic  Biddy,  with  a  rich 
specimen  of  what  pedants  and  pedagogues  call  "  the 
rising  inflection." 

Clara  could  not  help  laughing ;  and,  partly  to  hide 
her  mirth,  partly  to  get  out  of  the  cold,  and  partly  to 
help  herself  to  writing  materials,  swept  by  her  into  a 
dismal  little  parlor, — more  dismal  than  ever  now,  from 
its  look  of  desertion, — which  ordinarily  served  as  a 
complication  of  dining-room,  drawing-room,  and  day- 
nursery.  Biddy  stood  for  an  instant  spell-bound,  then 
crowded  in  with  her,  and  with  much  presence  of  mind 


108  HERMAN. 

locked  up  the  tea-spoons ;  after  wliich,  with  an  air  of 
expectation,  she  planted  herself  in  a  "  come  one,  come 
all !"  attitude,  with  her  back  against  the  door  of  the 
china-closet.  Clara  in  the  meantime  tore  off  a  piece 
of  the  margin  of  a  newspaper,  and  wrote  upon  it  as 
w^ell  as  she  could  with  a  tiny  gold  pencil,  which  usu- 
ally enjoyed  quite  a  sinecure  place  on  her  chatelaine : 

"  My  dear  Catherine :  I  have  but  just  heard  that 
you  are  not  well,  and  I  am  so  sorry.  1  hope  you  will 
let  me  come  up-stairs  and  see  if  there  is  not  anything 
I  can  do  for  you  or  the  children.  I  am  afraid  you 
.must  have  been  very  forlorn,  shut  up  in  this  cold,  long 
storm.  I  came  out  on  purpose  to  see  you.  I  can't 
bear  to  go  home  again  without  knowing  exactly 
how  you  are,  and  doing  something  to  make  you  feel 
better.     Your  affectionate  sister,  c.  l.  a." 

The  cordial,  simple  words  were  balm  to  poor  Cathe- 
rine's heart ;  for  she  had  been  feeling  very  helpless  and 
lonely.  Besides,  it  was  always  exceedingly  difficult  for 
her  to  say  no  to  anybody  or  anything. 

"  Betty,"  said  she,  to  a  prim,  homely,  anxious-look- 
ing child,  who  was  sitting  upon  the  foot  of  her  bed, 
"  it  is  your  dear  Aunty  Clary.  Run  down,  and  ask 
her  to  please  come  right  up-stairs." 

"  Tan't  we  tidy  you  up  first,  ma  ?" 

"No,  little  dear.  We  mustn't  keep  dear  aunty 
waiting.  Ask  her  to  please  excuse  the  looks  of  things, 
for  poor  dear  ma  is  all  in  a  muss." 

Betty  obediently  went,  but  with  a  housewifely  look 
of  regret  round  the  dark,  disordered  room,  and  a 
straightening  pull  at  the  rumpled  counterpane.  It  was 
very  good  of  her  to  venture  ;  for  she  was  shy ;  and, 
having  very  seldom  seen  her  Aunt  Clara,  she  was  much 
afraid  of  facing  alone  such  a  vision  of  mysterious 
p})lendor. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HEARTH.  109 

Clara  was  standing,  rapt  m  contemplation  of  the 
many  little  clothes  flapping  and  freezing  on  the  lines 
in  the  yard,  with  the  elder  Flint's  capering  amoug 
them  like  a  dancing-master  in  the  midst  of  his  pupils, 
and  thinking  with  compassionate  wonder  of  the  many 
stitches  which  it  must  require  to  make  and  keep  them 
in  order,  when  she  heard  a  mouse-like  squeak  at  the 
door.  Turning  round,  she  saw  the  tiny,  changeling 
figure  of  a  child  of  five  years  old,  upright  and  stiff, 
dressed  in  an  ugly,  but  neat  mousselirie-de-laine,  of 
primitive  cut.  Her  face  was  sallow,  intelligent,  and 
as  mature  and  joyless  as  that  of  a  care-burdened  woman 
of  thirty  ;  her  forehead  was  unbecomingly  large  and 
prominent,  as  were  also  her  dim,  bluish-gray  eyes ;  her 
mouth,  just  large  enough  to  admit  a  cherry  without 
crowding,  was  ruefully  drawn  down  at  the  corners, 
like  a  caret,  to  signify  that  her  nose  was  an  after- 
thought, and  must  not  be  over-looked  ; — a  most  unneces- 
sary hint ;  for  it  was  altogether  too  big  for  her,  and 
looked  like  a  grown-up  nose  snatched  in  haste,  and 
clapped  on  her  by  mistake,  from  a  wardrobe  of  noses ; — 
her  cropped  black  hair  was  perfectly  smooth ;  and  her 
neck,  hands,  and  arms,  clean,  but  red  and  chapped 
with  the  cold. 

"  How  do  you  do,  dear  ?"  said  Clara.  "  Come  and 
give  me  a  kiss.  What  have  you  got  to  say  to  Aunt 
Clara?" 

The  fairy,  coloring  with  bashful  fright,  involuntarily 
retreated  a  pace,  with  a  musquito-like  whisk  as  if 
blown  away  by  the  advancing  flounces,  repeated  like  a 
parrot,  "ma  tays,  won't  you  please  walk  up-tairs,  and 
please  not  look  at  her,  'tause  she's  all  in  a  muss  ?"  and, 
having  discharged  its  conscience  of  its  burden,  fled  be- 
fore her  face. 


110  HERMAN. 

Clara  glided  after,  and  up  the  uncarpeted  stairwa3\ 
The  house  was  a  large  and  fine  one,  which  Mr.  FJint 
had  taken  by  the  foreclosure  of  a  mortgage  from  an 
insolvent  premature  speculator.  Intending  to  sell  it, 
as  soon  as  the  situation  should  have  become  fashionable 
enough  to  enable  him  to  do  so  to  advantage,  he  had 
thought  it  worth  his  while  to  furnish  only  an  absolutely 
necessary  number  of  rooms  in  it ;  and  it  had  an  unin- 
liabited,  chill,  cheerless  look  and  feeling. 

The  invalid  made  an  effort  to  stretch  out  her  hand, 
as  her  visiter  appeared  in  her  chamber,  but  at  the  same 
instant  turned  away  her  face,  with  the  instinctive 
shrinking  from  observation  of  an  habitually  neat  person 
caught  in  an  enforced  deshabille^  and  said,  with  a  tone 
of  very  genuine  gratitude  sweetening  her  usual  rustic 
whine,  "  Dear  Clary,  how  kind  it  was  of  you  to  come 
and  see  me!" 

"  And  how  kind  it  was  of  you  to  let  me  !  What  is 
the  matter  ?  How  long  have  you  been  so  unwell  ? 
Why  did  you  not  send  us  word  ?" 

"  O,  I  didn't  think  of  troubling  you,  dear.  It  ain't 
anything,  I  expect,  but  a  cold.  But  it's  kind  o'  stiff- 
ened up  my  shoulders,  so  as  I  can't  put  my  hand  to  my 
head  ;  else  dear  ma's  hair  wouldn't  look  so  all  in  a 
frizzle,  would  it,  dear  little  Betty?"  The  tip  of  the 
little  brown  mouse's  nose  was  peeping  out  from  her 
nook  behind  the  blue-and-white  check  bed-curtain^^ ; 
but  it  was  instantly  drawn  in  again  out  of  sight,  like 
the  head  of  a  tortoise.  "  I  ain't  fit  to  be  seen,  I'm 
sure.  I'm  real  ashamed  to  let  you  see  me ;  you  always 
look  so  nice ;  but  I  seemed  to  kind  o'  hanker  so,  you 
know,  after  some  of  my  folks  to  come  and  set  w^ith  me. 
The  city's  such  a  dreadful  lonesome  place  to  be  sick  in, — 
Bu  different  from  what  it  is  to  home, — up  to  South  Brad 


TilE    AXGEL    OF    THE     IIEAIiTII.  Ill 

lee,  I  mean.  It  always  makes  me  real  liome-sick  when 
anything  ails  me.  Up  there,  joii  know,  everybody 
knows  everybody  else  ;  and  if  any  thing's  the  matter, 
there's  always  lots  of  folks  to  run  in  and  take  right 
hold;  and  aunt  was  snch  a  good  nurse.  *  I  do  miss  her 
60.  If  it  hadn't  been  so  awful  cold  and  snowy,  I'd 
have  sent  for  her  to  come  down  ;  but  I  expect  the  roads 
are  aM  blocked  up.  Why,  I  hain't  even  so  much  as 
had  my  face  washed  to-day  !"  * 

"  Do,  pray,  let  me  do  it  for  you." 

"Why,  deary,  I  couldn't  begin  to  think  of  no  such 
a  thing, — in  your  elegant  gown  and  all  I" 

"  I'll  take  off  the  skirt,  if  that  will  make  you  feel 
easier  about  it,  and  turn  np  my  sleeves,  and  tie  an 
apron  ronnd  my  neck  ;  I  will  brush  your  hair,  and 
plait  it  up  snugly  for  you,  too,  if  yon  feel  able  to 
bear  it." 

"  Well,  I  declare,  you're  so  good  !  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  to  say  I" 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Clara,  as,  perceiving  that 
her  offer  was  a  tempting  one.  she  quickly  and  quietly 
took ^ off  her  bonnet  and  prepared  her  dress;  "say 
where  I  shall  lind  your  sponge,  and  towels,  and 
brushes." 

"  Oh,  dear  little  Betty  will  hop  and  get  'em  in  half 
a  second  for  dear  Aunty  Clary,  if  you  will  be  so  kind. 
It's  imposing  on  good-nature,  I'm  sure !  It's  real  de- 
lightful to  feel  your  soft,  dear  little  hands.  My  Abi- 
gail was  a-coming  to  clean  me  up,  after  Bubby  went  to 
sleep  ;  but  I  had  him  vascinated  last  week,  and  he's 
got  a  dreadful  sore  arm  ;  and  it  makes  him  so  arbi- 
trary, she  can't  hardly  lay  him  down  a  second  without 
his  screeching  out  so  grieved,  it  sets  me  all  in  a  pres- 
piration.     And  wlien  she's  in  a  drive  to  get  to  him, 


112  HEliMAN. 

she's  so  quick  and  kind  of,tlioroiigh,  I  hate  to  have  her 
come  near  me  when  I'm  all  so  sort  of  tender." 

The  little  sprite,  Betty,  had  already  flitted  off  on 
her  toes  in  her  will-o'-the-wisp-like  way,  and  returning 
marvellously  soon,  with  all  the  articles  ordered  col- 
lected in  a  small  wash-basin,  set  them  down  on  the 
floor  just  within  Clara's  reach,  and  jerked  herself  back 
again,  as  if  feeding  a  rattle-snake  and  expecting  its 
spring.  In  a  few  minutes  more,without  being  bidden,  she 
had  obtained  fromher  crony,  Biddy,  a  small  jug  of  warm 
water,  which  she  brought  very  carefully,  with  all  her 
tiny  red  fingers  and  thumbs  spread  out  like  lobster- 
claws  on  the  brown  sides  of  it.  She  stooped  forward 
to  set  it  down,  and  rebounded  as  before  ;  after  which, 
she  presently,  by  a  subdued,  mouse-like  rustle,  scratch- 
ing on  the  partition,  and  sly  peeping,  made  known  her 
return  to  her  watch-tower,  a  high-chair  between  the 
wall  and  the  farther  side  of  the  bed,  at  the  opening  of 
the  curtains,  which  she  held  on  each  side  with  each 
hand,  just  far  enough  apart  to  protrude  her  nose  be- 
twixt them  when  unobserved,  and  shut  it  up  like  a 
clam  when  detected. 

"  How  long  have  you  had  this  cold  ?"  asked  Clara, 
as  she  brushed  and  stroked  the  scanty,  but  fine  and 
silky  light-brown  hair, — her  father's  hair, — so  like  his 
own,  as  she  had  smoothed  it  across  his  dead  forehead, 
that  it  seemed  impossible  that  her  fingers  could  be 
making  their  first  acquaintance  now  with  this,  and  that 
it  appeared  to  reproach  her  for  having  left  his  child,  as 
near  and  perhaps  as  dear  to  him  as  she,  so  long  un- 
tended  in  her  patient  sufi'erings  and  solitude. 

"  Well,  it  seems  a  good  while;  but,  come  to  think 
of  it,  I  don't  believe  it's  much  more  than  a  week  since 
I've  been  abed, — a  week  last  Sabbath.     Why,  that  was 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HEAIiTH.  113 

yesterday,  wasn't  it? — this  is  washing-day  ! — so  it  was  ! 
Xot  but  a  week.  I've  had  a  cold,  though,  most  all 
winter.  The  spaces  in  this  house  are  so  dreadful  long 
and  draughty  !  I  never  could  stand  cold,  very  well ; 
so  to  home  they  used  to  cosset  me,  and  I  always  had 
the  sleepin'-room,  that  opened  right  into  the  keepin'- 
room ;  and  when  it  was  cold,  or  anyways  chilly,  I 
could  always  put  my  double-dress  on,  and  step  right  in 
there  and  do  my  hair  in  the  morning,  early,  before  the 
folks  began  to  call.  'Tain't  healthy  to  sleep  with  a  fire 
in  your  chamber,  folks  say ;  and  husband  don't  like  to 
have  the  furnace  lit,  only  now  and  then  to  keep  the 
pipes  from  rusting,  'cause  he  says  'twill  make  us  ten- 
der ;  and  I  most  seem  to  get  frozen  stiif,  nights  and 
mornings,  dressing  and  undressing  myself,  and  running 
np  to  the  nursery,  and  down  to  the  kitchen,  and  all." 

"  Have  you  had  any  advice  ?'' 

"  Well,  no  I  haven't.  I  hope  I  shall  get  along 
without.  Abigail  wanted  me  to  see  the  doctor,  when 
he  come  to  vascinate  my  babe  ;  but  she  was  out,  attend- 
ing Bible-class  ;  and  I  was  asleep;  and  Bridget  carried 
Bub  down;  and  nobody  thought  of  it.^  Mr.  Flint  ob- 
served there  was  a  doctor  dov\m-towii  that  owed  him 
some  money,  and  worked  great  cures, — an  electorizer; 
— and,  if  I  don't  get  better  before  long,  he  talks  some 
of  having  him  come  up  to  electorize  me ;  but  I  don't 
know  as  it's  just  what  I  want." 

Clara  privately  resolved  that  Dr.  Arden  should  pay 
her  a  visit  the  next  day,  and  ascertain  her  wants. 

"  Husband  says,  if  the  ladies  only  had  to  work  for 
their  living,  and  other  folks's  living,  too,  as  hard  as  he  does, 
he  guesses  they  wouldn't  be  down  sick  quite  so  often  ! 
— the  gentlemen  are  so  funny !"  added  the  poor  little 
woman,  trying  to  force  a  feeble  he-he  with  tears  of 


1 14  HERMAN. 

weakness  welling  up  into  her  eyes,  as  the  unwonted  and 
tender  attentions  wliich  she  was  receiving  impercepti- 
bly drew  out  her  confidence  ; — "  but  I  tell  him,  '  if 
doing  all  the  cutting-out,  and  fitting,  and  house-keep- 
ing, and  half  the  mending,  and  making,  and  cooking, 
and  nursery-work,  for  five  people,  ain't  working  hard 
enough  for  one's  living,  I  don't  know  what  is.'  " 

"  Where  is  your  little  Tommy  ?"  said  Clara,  fearing 
that  they  were  getting  upon  dangerous  ground  ; 
"  sha'n't  I  see  him  to-day  ?"  She  had  made  Mrs.  Flint 
very  comfortable  and  neat,  and  was  now  hovering 
lightly  about  the  chamber,  turning  confusion  to  order 
everywhere  with  a  noiseless  touch ;  while  her  sister's 
charmed  gaze  followed  her,  as  if  thirsting  to  drink  in 
the  fulness  of  calm  life  and  animated  peace,  which  al- 
ways made  her  very  aspect  at  once  so  strengthening 
and  so  healing,  so  soothing  and  refreshing,  to  any  one 
in  any  kind  of  suffering. 

"  He's  up  in  the  nursery.  He  froze  one  of  his  feet 
a  little,  Saturday  afternoon,  playing  snow-ball  in  the 
yard.  Mr.  Flint  don't  allow  him  to  wear  woollen 
socks,  because  he  wants  to  harden  him ;  and  Abigail 
was  going  to  fix  it  up  for  him  with  some  sweet-oil  and 
cotton-wool ;  and  she  set  her  foot  down,  that  he 
shouldn't  set  foot  down  here  again  till  he  had  his  foot 
done.  But  I'm  afraid  he  won't.  He's  always  as  impi- 
dent  as  a  tiger  to  her,  she  says.  I  guess  she  don't  know 
exactly  how  to  manage  him  ;  it  takes  father  for  that." 
Then  came  a  little,  involuntary  sigh. 

"  How  do  you  think  it  would  do  for  me  to  run  up 
to  the  nursery,  and  see  about  him  ?  Perhaps  he  will 
be  good  with  me." 

"  Why,  dear,  I  couldn't  only  be  too  thankful  to 
have  you,  I'm  sure,  if  you'd  really  like  to ;  l)ut  I  can't 


THE  AXGEL  OF  THE  HEAKTH.  115 

seem  to  bear  to  think  of  all  the  trouble  I'm  a-giving 
of  jou.  Abigail  is  just  as  faithful  as  faithful  can  be ; 
but  she  has  her  hands  over-full  when  I'm  taken  off;  and 
the  poor  little  things  miss  ma.  You  go  right  straight 
up-stairs,  and  it's  the  right-hand  first  door." 

Clara  could  easily  have  found  the  nursery,  with  no 
other  direction  than  that  afforded  by  the  ruenagerie- 
like  symphony  of  jumpings,  whimperings,  and  scold- 
ings, which  issued  from  the  door,  half-opened  to  let  the 
smoke  out  and  barricaded  with  a  chair  to  keep  the 
children  in. 

"  Let  'em  alone  !"  blustered  frost-nipped  Tommy ; 
^'you  sha'n't  touch  'em,  I  say  !  They're  my  toes,  and 
not  yours  I" 

"Well,  sir,"  rejoined  Abigail,  "I'm  sure  nobody 
don't  want  to  deprive  you  of  'em." 

Clara  tapped  softly.  There  was  a  temporary  ces- 
sation of  hostilities ;  and  a  sharp-looking,  black-eyed 
Xova-Scotia  woman  appeared  at  the  barrier.  She  was 
of  cylindrical  form  and,  being  clad  in  bottle-green, 
strongly  resembled  a  walking  vinegar-vial  of  pickled 
virtues.  Clara's  benign  and  lady- like  aspect  was  as  a 
spoonful  of  soda  to  the  vinegar.  It  effervesced  in  sim- 
pers, bows,  and  curtseys,  became  insipid,  and  sub- 
sided. 

"  I  came  up  to  see,  if  I  could  help  to  take  care  of 
the  children.  Mrs.  Flint  told  me,  that  she  was  afraid 
you  had  too  much  to  do  while  she  was  ilL  Oh,  there 
is  the  little  man,  that  I  want  to  have  a  little^chat  with  I 
Come,  Tommy,  darling ;  come  sit  on  my  knee  !" 

Tommy  was  only  too  happy  to  do  so.  He  remem- 
bered her  very  well,  and,  though  only  six  years  old, 
had  sat  staring  at  her  with  his  bright  blue  eyes  wide 
open,  from  the  first  instant  of  her  appearance,  with  a 


116  HERMAN. 

clever  boy's  genuine  admiration  of  beauty  and  grace. 
One  source  of  his  previous  disquiet  bad  been,  that,  hav- 
ing declared  before  he  heard  of  her  arrival,  in  full 
nursery-conclave,  that,  he  wouldn't  be  a  good  boy, 
and  let  all  the  cross  old  Abbies  in  creation  be  fumbling 
with  his  foot,  and  tickling  him  half  to  death,  it  had 
become  a  point  of  honor  and  consistency  with  him  not 
to  yield,  as  it  was  with  her  not  to  let  him  go  below 
until  he  had  done  so  ;  and  he  had  been  very  much 
afraid,  that  he  should  thus  lose  his  chance  of  seeing  his 
Aunt  Clara.  Bubby,  alias  Dandy,  alias  Daniel  Web- 
ster, who,  if  he  resembled  his  namesake  in  nothing 
else,  certainly  did  so  in  being,  as  his  discerning  parent 
had  said,  "  arbitrary,"  at  the  same  moment  awaking 
and  being  "  grieved,"  by  finding  himself  deposited  on 
his  back  on  the  bed,  instead  of  in  the  weary  arms  of 
his  attached  foster-mother,  opportunely  burst  into  a 
full-blown  w^ar- whoop;  so  that  Miss  Arden  had  the  field 
to  herself 

Slightly  glancing  at  the  little  white,  dangling,  blis- 
tered foot,  she  cheerfully  said,  "  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  How 
glad  I  am  it  is  no  worse  !  Tommy,  did  you  ever  hear 
the  story  of  a  poor  little  boy,  who  had  to  have  his  foot 
cut  off,  because  he  froze  it  very  badly  indeed,  and  had 
nobody  to  take  care  of  it,  and  bind  it  up  for  him? — and 
he  was  so  brave  that  he  did  not  scream  once,  and  only 
groaned  three  or  four  times.  It  is  in  a  very  pretty 
book,  that  I  had  when  I  was  a  little  girl ;  and  if  you 
are  a  brave  boy,  too,  I  think  I  must  give  it  to  you." 
She  told  the  story  very  minutely,  in  a  whisper.  Tom- 
my's eyes  twinkled. 

''  Now,"  added  she,  "  I  will  tell  you  what  we  will 
play.  I  will  be  the  surgeon,  and  tie  up  your  foot,  and 
you  shall  be  the  courageous  little  boy ;  but  it  will  be 


THE  AXGEL  OF  THE  HEAETH.  117 

scarcely  anything  but  play;  because  I  don't  think  I 
need  hurt  you  in  tire  least.     You  can  tell  me  if  I  do." 

The  experiment  succeeded  perfectly,  Tommy  enjoy- 
ing it  more  than  she  did  ;  but  just  as  slie  set  him  down 
with  a  kiss,  and  rose,  there  was  a  terrible  shock  and 
shout  in  the  room  below. 

Little  Betty's  good  conduct  was  of  an  intermittent 
type.  Her  quietness  and  obedience,  at  the  time  of 
Clara's  arrival,  had  been  chiefly  owing  to  her  pressing 
secret  anxiety  lest  her  sick  mother  was  now  about  to 
die,  and  go  to  heaven  and  leave  her, — an  event  with 
which  Abigail  was  always  threatening  her,  contingent 
upon  her  being  naughty,  and  making  "  a  noise  to  wake 
up  her  dear  little  brother."  That  theological  pre- 
ceptress further  informed  her,  that  if  she  was  always  a 
good  little  girl,  she  also  would  be  able  to  go  to  heaven ; 
as  she  would  in  that  case  turn  into  an  angel,  and  have 
wings  given  her  to  fly  up  into  the  sky  with.  Betty's 
self-knowledge  taught  her,  however,  to  regard  this 
prospect  as  not  only  a  distant  but  an  extremely  uncer- 
tain one,  and  to  think  it  most  prudent  to  have  recourse 
at  once  to  some  other  expedients  of  hor  own.  She 
therefore,  on  this  eventful  morning,  persuaded  Bridget 
to  assist,  her  in  pinning  one  edge  of  two  clean  dish- 
cloths down  each  side  of  the  waist  of  her  dress, — a  pro- 
cess attended  with  repeated  perforations  of  her  surface, 
which  she  endured,  though  with  sundry  wriggles,  yet 
with  all  the  fortitude  of  enterprising  genius  intent  on 
its  ideal.  Then,  taking  the  uj^per  corners  of  the  towels 
opposite  to  the  ones  pinned  at  her  shoulders,  in  each 
hand,  she  ran  up  from  the  kitchen  to  view  herself  in 
a  looking-glass,  flapping  her  artificial  pinions  like  an 
unfledged  chicken. 

The  invention  certainly  looked  promising.  She 
hoped    that    it    would    answer    her    purpose.       She 


118  HERMxVN. 

wished  to  try  it  by  fl}'ing  from  the  window-si  il 
of  an  nnused  second-story  apartment,  adjoininpj  her 
mother's,  into  the  street ;  but  the  window  was  fastened ; 
and  she  could  not  reach  the  bolt.  Comforting  herself 
with  the  reflection  that,  as  the  adjustment  of  the  con- 
trivance might  not  yet  be  perfect,  it  would  perhaps  be 
better  to  attempt  a  shorter  flight  at  first,  she  next  set 
up  two  high  stools  about  a  yard  apart,  and  endeavoured 
to  spring  with  arms  extended,  like  a  flying-squirrel, 
from  the  top  of  one  to  that  of  the  other  ;^ien,  lo !  she 
verified  the  proverb,  aud  came  down  on  her  poor  little 
chin,  on  the  edge  of  the  furthest,  which  upset  and  fell 
upon  her  in  its  turn.  She  was  hurt,  as  well  as  griev- 
ously friglitened,  disappointed,  and  mortified  ;  and  her 
loud  fall,  and  shrieks  of  mental  and  physical  anguish, 
brought  down  and  up  to  the  scene,  in  one  promiscuous 
rush,  Clara,  Abigail,  Daniel  Webster,  Tommy,  and 
Bridget. 

Poor  Catherine  behaved  as  well  as  she  could  ;  but 
she  was  shivering  with  terror  when  they  laid  the  sob- 
bing child  beside  her  ;  and  Clara  pitied  her  afresh,  not 
for  being  ill  merely,  but  for  being  ill  in  such  a  Babel ; 
— could  this  be  by  any  means  a  fair  specimen  of  her 
life  ? — She  begged  her  sister's  permission  to  take  Tom- 
my and  Betty  home,  to  finish  the  day  in  Mount -Yernon 
Street,  and  leave  her  to  rest  and  sleep.  Tommy  caught 
at  the  idea,  and  would  not  be  denied ;  but  poor  little 
Betty  onl}'  burrowed  with  her  great  head  under  the 
pillow ;  and  no  entreaty  nor  inducement,  that  Clara  had 
to  ofter,  could  obtain  from  her  anything  more  than  a 
closer  nestle  to  her  mother,  and  the  antithetical  reply 
in  a  half-sob,  "  'Es  ;  'ta}^  here." 

A  coach  was  sent  for ;  as  Tommy  could  not  walk. 
He  watched  for  it,  and  was  in  it  the  moment  it  stopped 


THE   axgp:l   of  the  hearth.  119 

at  the  door.  Clara  came  to  the  bed-side  with  her  bon- 
net on;  but  poor  Catherine  chmg.to  her  with  a  linger- 
ing hand,  as  if  she  could  not  bear  to  let  so  much  health 
and  happiness  go  from  her.  '*  When  diall  I  see  jou 
again  T'  said  she,  plaintively. 

"  Oh,  of  course,!  mean  to  come  to  you  everyday,  if 
po5sible,^at  least,  till  I  see  you  in  your  parlor  again." 

Catherine  smiled,  and  let  her  go.  She  was  leaving 
happiness  enough  behind  her  now. 

It  was  two  o'clock.  The  air  seemed  redolent  of 
one  omnipresent  beef-steak.  As  she  passed  the  first 
comer,  she  saw  Mr.  Flint  hurrying  round  it  with  a  car- 
nivorous expression  ;  and  so  did  Tommy,  as  she  sus- 
pected by  his  shrinking  back  out  of  sight  from  his  v.'in- 
dow,  and  holding  his  tongue  for  as  much  as  thirty 
seconds. 

She  stopped  before  the  shop  of  the  family  grocer, — 
who  came  bo\vino:  and  smilinoj  out  to  receive  her  com- 
mands, — and  ordered  some  fruit  and  flowers  to  be  sent 
in  her  name  to  Mrs.  Flint.  Xext  she  drove  to  a  toy- 
shop, bought  a  handsome  rocking-horse,  and  ordered  it 
home, — to  be  ridden  there  by  Tommy,  who  clamored 
in  vain  for  a  drum, — and 'a  flaxen-haired  and  blooming 
wax-doll,  with  eyes  which  would  shut  and  open,  to 
serve  as  a  bribe  and  companion  for  Betty,  the  next  time 
she  should  request  the  pleasure  of  her  company. 

She  reached  home,  feeling  like  a  restored  exile,  in 
time  to  superintend  an  early  dinner  for  her  little  guest, 
and  to  amuse  herself  with  him  for  an  hour,  before  Ed- 
ward came  in  and  she  went  down  to  dine.  Luckily, 
Tommy's  horse  had  then  just  been  brought ;  and  she 
left  him  delighted  w^ith  it  in  the  "  nursery,"  still  so- 
called, — a  sunny,  cheerful  room,  adjoining  her  own, 
where  her  maid  sat  at  work  in  the  dav-time.     The  u-irl 


120  HEIiMAN. 

was  an  American,  conscientious,  intelligent,  and,  for- 
tunately, particularly  fond  of  children ;  so  that  she 
promised  herself  much  cooperation  from  her,  if  it 
should  prove,  as  she  foresaw,  expedient  to  have  such 
visits  often  repeated. 

"  Edward,"  said  she,  as  they  luxuriated  together 
as  usual,  over  their  dessert,  "  I  want  you  to  do  two 
things  for  me." 

"  Dis  doncP 
.    "  Go  to  see  Catherine  Flint," 

''  Et  jpourquoi  .^" 

''  She  is  confined  to  her  bed,  poor  thing,  with  a 
rheumatic  cold." 

"  Certainly.  She  has  called  in  no  one  else,  I 
take  it." 

''  ]^o,  not  yet.  Her  husband  has  proposed  to  call 
in  an  electrical  practitioner,  who  owes  him  some 
money." 

"  What  Mrs.  Malaprop  might  justly  call  a  quachXi- 
tioner,  perhaps." 

"  Perhaps.  At  any  rate,  she  does  not  much  like 
the  plan  ;  and  if  you  go  in  good  season  to-morrow,  be- 
fore there  are  any  professional  etiquettes  in  your  way, 
and  pay  her  a  brotherly  visit,  no  one  can  object." 

"  It  shall  be  done  ;  and  you  may  rely  upon  my 
curing  her  as  quickly  as  possible.  What  can  be  the 
reason  that  agreeable  people  so  seldom  are  sick  ?  Clara, 
you  never  are." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  be,  if  you  will  grant  my  second 
request." 

"  What  is  that  ?  Do  you  want  me  to  buy  you  some 
candy  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  invite  Mr.  Flint  here  to  dine  to- 


THE     A^'GEL    OF    THE  ^EAETH.  121 

Yoli !— what  ?*' 

"  Want  jOH  to  invite  Mr.  Flint  here  to  dine  to- 
morrow." 

"  Angels  and  ministers ! — Clara,  shall  I  order  a 
hair-shirt  and  scom*ge  ?" 

"  Xo." 

"  Neither  shall  I  invite  Mr.  Flint  here  to  dine  to- 
morrow." 

"  Only  once." 

"  Only  twice !  Why,  yon  could  not  possibly  have 
seen  what  he  did  the  last  time." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  What  I  saw." 

"  I  know  it  could  not  possibly  have  been  anything 
worse  than  I  saw.  Let  us  compare.  Describe  your 
vision." 

"  Language  fails  me." 

"  I  will  help  you." 

"  I  saw—" 

"  Well,  so  did  I"— 

"  Him  put  his  knife," — 

"  I  know.  He  had  just  been  mashing  beans,  and 
eating  them  with  it." — 

"  When  Patrick  handed  him  the  squash," — 

"  That's  it !     Into  the  spoon,"— 

"  And  scoop  out  the  squash,  that  clave  unto  it,  upon 
his  plate  !" 

"  Exactly  !" 

"  O— o-^oh !" 

"A— a— ah!" 

"  And  after  that,  you  propose  to  me  to  bring  him 
here  again !" 

'*  I  think  we  ought  once,  while  his  wife  is  ill." 

"  Can't  he  rush  into  Parker's  just  as  well,  distend 
6 


122  ^    HEKMAJN. 

himself,  and  be  back  again  in  his  counting-room  in 
fifteen  minutes  ?" 

"  A  pretty  suggestion  for  a  medical  man  I  Who,  do 
you  think,  will  employ  you,  sir  ?" 

"  You,  madam,  as  you  suggested,  if  your  reasonable 
and  tasteful  request  is  granted, — provided  I  am  in  a 
condition  to  attend  to  you." 

"  We  will  not  have  any  squash." 

"  We  will  have  nothing.  We  will  keep  a  solemn 
fast.     It  will  be  of  service  to  his  dyspepsia." 

"  I  may  ask  him,  then  ?" 

*'  At  your  peril !" 

"  Thank  you.  You  shall  see  how  nicely  I  will 
manage.  We  will  have  no  dish  on  his  side  of  the  ta- 
ble ;  and  I  will  tell  Patrick  that,  for  that  day,  I  will 
try  not  having  the  vegetables  passed  round,  but  letting 
him  take  the  plates  to  the  dishes,  and  himself  help  to 
whatever  is  wanted,  which  stands  opposite  to  Mr. 
Flint ;  and  you  and  I,  of  course,  shall  dispense  the  pro- 
visions at  our  ends  of  the  table." 

"  It  will  be  too  late  for  me.  I  shall  not  live  to  see 
the  second  course.  He  will  suck  me  down  in  one  of 
his  long-drawn  sonorous  gasps  over  his  soup." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  How  absurd.  He  will  not  sit  op- 
posite to  you." 

"  He  will  draw  all  the  smoke  down  the  chimney, 
then." 

"  He  can  sit  with  his  back  to  the  fire. — We  won't 
have  any  soup." 

"  Then  you  will  have  fish  ;  and  he'll  chop  it  up  with 
his  steel  knife,  and  eat  apple-sauce  with  it." 

"  Suppose  he  does,  now. — We  shall  know  better 
this  time  than  to  look  at  him.  Do  let  him  spoil  his 
dinner,  if  he  likes.     What  does  it  signify  to  us  ?" 


THE  AXGEL  OF  THE  HEARTH.  123 

"  Philanthropy,  my  dear  girl !  Philanthropy !" 
"  He  would  spoil  it  just  as  much  anywhere  else." 
"  He  would  not  have  so  good  a  dinner  to  spoil," 
said  the  sophist,  slyly  shifting  his  ground.  '^  Execu- 
tions must  take  place ;  but  one  would  not  therefore 
wish  to  hang  an  excellent  person,  nor  to  witness  his 
parting  pangs." 

"  What  a  tease  you  are  !  It  is  of  no  use  for  me  to 
talk  to  you  ;  it  only  makes  you  worse." 
"  Not  usually.  Try  a  different  subject." 
"  I  will, — only  this  I  must  say  first,  dear  Edward, 
that  I  am  very  sorry  to  plague  you,  but  in  sober  ear- 
nest I  think,  that  wc  ought  to  be  kind  to  the  Elints ; 
for  you  know  we  never  exerted  ourselves  too  much  to 
make  poor  papa  happy  ;  and  now  the  only  thing  that 
we  can  do  for  him  is,  to  befriend  the  other  members  of 
his  family." 

After  a  supplementary  frolic  with  Tommy,  Clara 
sent  him  safely  home,  rejoicing  over  the  story-book 
which  she  had  given  him,  though  begging  hard  to  take 
his  horse,  too.  She  had  been  glad  to  have  him  come, 
and  was  now  glad  again  to  have  him  go  ;  and  it  was 
with  quite  a  new  sense  of  enjoyment  of  her  usual 
leisure  and  freedom,  that  she  welcomed  her  grown-up 
friends.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Brodie,  and  had  a  merry,  socia- 
ble evening's  chat  with  them.  They  were  a  very  well- 
matched,  united,  and  clever  elderly  couple,  who,  after 
struggling  together  through  a  youth  of  hard,  work, 
small  means,  and  six  children,  had  made  their  way  to 
an  easy  competence  while  they  were  still  fresh  and 
vigorous  enough  to  enjoy  it  heartily,  and  all  the  more 
from  its  contrast  with  past  privation  and  anxiety, 
and  from  the  economical  habits,  which  made  it  a  for- 
tune to  them. 

The  Doctor  was  as  witty  as  wise ;  and  his  stories 


12  J:  HERMAN. 

of  sayings  and  doings,  which  he  had  seen  and  heard  in 
the  course  of  liis  practice,  kept  them  much  of  the  time 
in  fits  of  laughter ;  but  between  them  Clara  found  a 
chance  to  make  her  intended  inquiries  ;  and  he  readily 
and  eagerly  engaged  to  keep  her  supplied  with  objects 
of  charity. 

He  mentioned  to  her  at  once  a  poor  man,  for- 
merly an  industrious  and  thriving  mechanic,  who, 
after  losing  his  wife  and  three  daugliters  by  a  singular 
series  of  fatalities,  had  been  seized  with  incurable 
paralysis  on  the  burial-day  of  the  last.  His  savings 
from  his  past  earnings  supplied  him  with  what  are  com- 
monly called  the  necessaries  of  life  ;  but  driving  gave 
great  relief  to  the  pain  which  he  suifered,  as  well  as  to 
the  vacant  monotony  of  his  creeping  years ;  and  this 
he  could  not  aiford  himself.  Clara  determined  imme- 
diately to  give  an  order  to  the  keeper  of  a  livery-stable, 
to  send  for  him  four  times  a  week,  at  her  expense,  a 
suitable  vehicle, — an  open  one,  as  the  Doctor  advised, 
when  the  weather  was  fair  and  mild  enough, — with  a 
safe  and,  if  possible,  a  companionable  driver  to  take, 
him  out.  It  was  not  very  much  for  her  to  give.  It 
was  so  much  for  him  to  receive,  that  three  years  after, 
on  his  death -bed,  he  spoke  of  it,  almost  with  his  last 
breath,  with  tears  of  gratitude. 

"  Edward,"  said  she,  that  evening,  as  he  returned 
after  accompanying  her  visiters  to  the  door,  "  how 
much  .money  have  I  to  spend  ?" 

"  I  usually  draw  three  hundred  dollars, — don't  you 
know  ? — for  you,  every  quarter.  Why  ?  Isn't  it 
enough  ?  Of  course,  there's  plenty  more,  if  you  want 
it.  I  am  going  to  the  bank  to-morrow.  How  much 
will  you  have  ?" 

"  Thank  you.  I  believe  I  have  enough  now,  for 
tlie  present ;  but  I  me;mt  to  ask  what  my  whole  in- 
come was/' 


THE  AXGEL  OF  THE  HEARTH.  125 

"  Have  you  waited  all  this  time  to  find  that  out  1 
How  exactly  like  yon  !  Clara  !  Clara  !  Thank  Hea- 
ven, that  it  did  not  make  you  an  unprotected  female." 

''  Indeed  I  do.  I  hope  it  never  will.  Bat  my  in- 
come ?" 

"  O  !  the  same  as  mine.  Twelve  thousand  a  year  it 
was  when  it  was  left  you,  out  of  which  you  contribute 
three  thousand  five  hundred  dollars,  as  I  do,  annually, 
for  our  household  expenses.  If  you  mean  to  turn 
financier,  and  want  to  know  exactly  how  much  it  is 
now,  you  must  let  me  send  up  Mr.  Crockett  and  his 
books,  and  exhibit  your  business  talents  and  practical 
turn  of  mind  in  a  conference  with  him.  He's  trustee, 
and  trusty.  Your  principal  must  have  increased  some- 
what by  accumulation ;  for  you  have  never  spent  more 
than  half  your  interest." 

"  I'm  so  glad  !" 

"Little  miser!  Why?  To  make  some  fortune- 
hunter  come  after  you,  and  cheat  you  into  believing 
that  he  likes  you  better  than  I,  and  that  you  like  him 
better  than  me  ?" 

A  very  pretty  blush  and  smile,  and  a  slight  shake 
of  the  curls,  were  the  only  answer  he  got ;  but  the  an- 
swer in  Clara's  heart  was,  "  Only  think  how  much 
good  it  can  do  !" 

She  was  partly  right,  and,  in  her  humility,  partly 
wrong.  Money  is,  in  itself,  almost  as  likely  to  do  harm 
as  good ;  while,  like  all  the  gifts  of  Providence,  it  is  pretty 
sure  to  do  one  or  the  other.  Money,  however,  man- 
aged by  good  sense  and  good  feeling,  such  as  she  had 
been  showing  within  the  last  few  hours,  is,  if  only 
one  means,  a  very  great  one,  of  doing  much  good  to 
one's  neighbour,  and  more  to  one's  self;  and  yet, 
after  all,  her  good  sense  and  good  feeling  alone 
had  done  little  less  good  than  her  money  that  day. 


126  HERMAN. 

Edward  lighted  their  night-lamps  with  a  weary 
yawn,  and  said  that  they  had  had  a  tolerable  evening, 
but  he  was  not  sorry  to  have  the  night  come,  for  the 
day  had  been  detestable. 

"  Have  yon  found  it  so  ?  I  am  sorry.  I  believe  I 
have  rather  enjoyed  it." 

''  Are  you  so  hard-hearted  ?  Haven't  you  been 
haunted  by  the  ghost  in  that  chair  ?"  said  he,  point- 
ing to  a  large  and  curious  old-fashioned  high-backed 
chair,  worked  in  pale  dim  colors  and  odd  and  fading 
figures,  which  had  been  Herman's  mother's,  and 
in  which  his  graceful  stripling  figure  was  usually  to 
be  seen  comfortably  lounging,  at  that  time  of  night. 
(He  had  earned  for  it  the  name  by  which  it  usually 
went  with,  his  brother  and  sister,  the  "  Ghost's 
Chair,"  in  his  childhood,  by  melo-dramatically  an- 
nouncing to  a  nervous  guest,  "  It  is  some  of  my 
great-grandmother's  work  ;  and  she  is  a  ghost.") 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  no ;  or,  at  least,  not  unplea- 
santly. I  believe  that  I  have  thought  so  continually 
about  Herman's  presence,  as  to  have  hardly  yet  be- 
come conscious  of  his  absence.  There  has  been  a 
sort  of  departing  sunset-light  left  shining  back  from 
him,  that  has  shown  me  my  way  all  day  long." 

Perhaps  Clara  had  read  and  transmuted  with 
her  joyous  spirit  that  sweet,  sad  verse  of    Tennyson's  : 

"  His  memory  long  will  live  alone 
In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 
That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 
And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the  night." 

So  it  was  when  he  left  them  again  for  a  longer  jour- 
ney ;  and  there  was  one  who  walked  in  that  soft  and 
Bolemn  twilight  to  her  life's  end. 


THE     KNIGHT    AND   THE    BACKWOODSMAN.  12' 


CHAPTER    YII, 

THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

"A  youth,  light-hearted  and  content, 

I  wander  through  the  world; 

Here  Arab-like  is  pitched  my  tent, 

And  straight  again  is  furled. 
Yet  Gilt  I  dream  that  once — " 

Pfizek,  translated  by  Longfellow. 

The  first  day  of  Herman's  journey,  after  the  bustle 
and  excitement  of  the  first  hour  of  starting,  passed  but 
heavily.  His  weariness  returned  upon  him ;  and 
the  severed  heart-strings  ached.  The  sides  of  the  rail- 
road were  heaped  up  with  drifts ;  and  the  air  was  filled 
with  flakes,  which  the  charging  winds  made  such  com- 
motion among,  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  snow- 
ing ii-p  as  fast  as  down,  and  that  there  was  almost  an 
equal  chance,  that  the  storm  would  end  in  the  flying 
white  feathers'  hitching  again  in  the  low  brooding 
clouds,  and  leaving  the  earth  as  bare  as  it  was  before 
they  fell.  The  windows  were  all  shut,  and  dim  with 
the  breath  of  his  grimly-contented,  sufibcation-loving 
fellow-passengers;  he  made  no  attempt  to  open  his; 
for  he  thought  that  if,  in  circumstances  so  depressing, 
they  could  derive  any  comfort  from  the  inhalation  of 
their  customary  carbonic  acid,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  de- 
prive them  of  it ;  and  even  when  he  wiped  a  pane,  and 
tried  to  divert  his  thoughts  by  looking  at  the  shifting 
views  of  the  ghastly  landscape,  the  provoking  steam, 
which  the  engine  blew  fi*om  its  ever-smoking  pipe,  kept 


128  HERMAN. 

clapping  its  hand  over  each  picture,  just  as  his  eye 
fixed  upon  it.  Last,  not  least,  as  he  had  feared,  his 
otherwise  worthy  companion  proved  a  prig. 

Happily,  the  latter  had  laid  in  a  seemingly  inex- 
haustible supply  of  mental  provisions  for  his  journey, 
in  the  shape  of  tracts  ;  pamphlets  on  teaching  children 
to  read  right  by  the  ingenious  process  of  spelling  wrong, 
and  on  other  important  and  practicable  kindred  re- 
forms ;  specimens  of  the  "  phonetic  "  alphabet,  and  of 
tlie  productions  of  its  patrons  ;  and  second-rate  trea- 
tises, by  self-taught,  not  to  say  untaught,  geniuses,  on 
intemperance,  war,  slavery,  &c., — a  gloomy  and  de- 
pressing kind  of  literature,  chiefly  remarkable,  per- 
haps, for  its  power  of  bringing  the  might  of  pressing 
social  evils  into  the  strongest  contrast  with  that  of  the 
means  by  which  it  proposes  to  remove  them.  He 
kindly  offered  some  of  these  to  Herman.  He  accepted 
one,  as  an  excuse  for  his  unsociable  silence.  It  put 
him  to  sleep,  and  was  thus  of  some  service  to  him  ;  but 
he  dreamed  of  Constance  Aspenwall;  and  when  he 
awoke,  he  dreamed  of  her  still. 

Day  and  night  he  hurried  on  ;  but  it  was  still  as  one 
in  a  dream, — a  dream  of  her.  He  could  not  help  it 
yet.  He  glided  over  Delaware  Bay,  and  with  an  idle 
eye  watched  its  flocks  of  wild  ducks, floating  on  the  wa- 
ter like  the  brown  sea- weed  of  Sea  Farm,  till  the  steam- 
boat came  too  near,  and  then  flying  up  and  away  with 
the  silver  linings  of  their  wings  twinkling  in  the  sun 
against  the  evergreen  trees  on  the  shore,  and  wondered 
whether  she  had  lately  watched  them  so.  Delaware 
and  Maryland  lay  behind, — Maryland  where  she  might 
even  now  be,  so  near  him,  yet  so  far  from  him,  so  little 
guessing  he  was  there,  caring  so  little  where  he  was.— 
The  beautiful  hills  of  Virginia  closed  in  around  him, 


THE    KXIGHT    A>'D    THE    BACKW00DSiIA2^.  129 

Mith  houses  nestling,  and  sometimes  even  carefully 
fitted,  into  tlieir  sides.  The  mountain -laurels 
gleamed  like  emeralds  througli  their  coating  of  thin 
ice.  The  hills  grew  higher  and  higher ;  and,  where 
the  road  cut  through  them,  a  rich  green  matting  of 
thick  tufted  moss  drooped  lovingly  over,  to  heal  their 
wounds  and  hide  the  scars.  Log-cabins  began  to  ap- 
pear and  run  by,  with  galleries^  thatched  roofs,  and — 
alas  ! — now  and  then  great  black  holes  broken  through 
them  ;  but  who  would  be  tasteless  enough  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  speak  of  thrift  and  comfort  in  comparison  with 
the  picturesque,  and  with  the  (very)  "  peculiar  institu- 
tion," which  is  so  very  promotive  of  it  ?  Large  snaky 
creepers  ran  writhing  up  the  trunks  of  the  still  leafless 
trees.  The  setting  sun  shone  on  gilded,  filmy,  dis- 
tant mountains  and  clouds,  which  one  could  hardly  tell 
apart ;  but  he  passed  the  highest  Alleghanies  to  his  re- 
gret in  a  dark  night,  without  seeing  so  much  as  a  bear, 
in  a  jolting  stage-coach  with  rough-looking  men  about 
him  ;  as  he  found  when  the  morning  broke  and  he  be- 
held them  for  the  first  time,  nodding  waggishly  at  each 
other  in  their  uneasy  sleep. 

They  stopped  for  breakfast,  for  a  few  moments,  at 
an  inn.  Herman  determined  to  avail  himself  of  the 
opportunity  to  wash  his  face.  For  this  purpose  he  was 
shown  into  a  spacious  apartment  containing  the  conve- 
nience of  a  handsome  rose-wood  bedstead,  and  nothing 
else.  The  very  door  had  neither  latch,  lock,  bolt,  nor 
button^  to  keep  it  shut.  By  earnest  and  repeated  ex- 
postulation, he  obtained  a  quart-bowl  of  water  and  a 
napkin,  just  before  the  coach  started  again.  On  tliey 
went  once  more  through  the  wide  dreary  tracts  of 
brown  and  white  mountain  and  wood-land,  coming  now 
and  then  to  a  clearing,  where  the  snow  was  unbroken 
6* 


130  HERMAN. 

except  by  the  ebon  stumps  of  felled  trees,  which 
looked  like  the  graveyard  of  the  departed  lords  of  the 
forest. 

At  Wheeling,  Mr.  Grubbe  pointed  ont  to  Herman 
a  fresh  novelty.  It  was  a  "  wharf-boat,"  a  sort  of 
scow  with  a  store-house  in  it,  containing  for  sale,  the 
old  man  told  him,  such  things  as  passing  steamboats 
were  likely  to  want,  and  moored  at  the  shore,  or  rowed 
out  towards  the  middle  of  the  river,  according  to  the 
depth  of  the  water  at  the  time. 

They  were  again  embarked,  and  sliding  smoothly 
down  between  the  brown  sepia  landscapes  on  the  banks 
of  the  Ohio,  with  the  small  black  mouths  of  their  sub- 
soil coal  mines  opening  everywhere,  like  those  of  the 
soul-destroying  pit.  Cairo  was  passed  ;  and  they  were 
stirring  with  the  prow  of  their  steamboat  the  dingy 
boiling  gruel  of  the  Mississippi. 

Here  his  worthy  old  friend,  having  by  this  time 
'  read  most  of  his  pamphlets,  and  distributed  many,  was 
much  thrown  upon  Herman's  society  for  entertain- 
ment. Herman  made  the  best  of  it,  by  drawing  from 
him  a  little  account  of  his  mode  of  life,  and  of  the  sav- 
ages among  whom  he  passed  it.  He  hinted  a  little 
surprise  that,  at  Mr.  Grubbe's  age,  he  should  not  choose 
to  retire  from  the  scenes  of  his  labors,  and  end  his  days 
in  ease  and  comfort.  He  was  only  to  have  a  lesson  to 
teach  him  that  tastes  are  almost  as  various  as  men. 
A  well-known  dentist  declares  on  the  authority  of  his 
own  experience,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  taste  for 
dentistry,— on  the  part  of  the  practitioner,  though  even 
he  probably  would  not  venture  to  assert  that  he  ever 
ascertained  its  existence  on  the  part  of  the  patient. — 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Grubbe,  attempting  in  vain, 
as  he  usually  did  at  the  commencement  of  a  discourse, 


THE    KNIGHT    A^T)    THE    BACKWOODSMAN.  131 

to  clear  his  hnmchitic  voice,  an  organ  Tvithont  stops, 
which  in  its  tones  resembled  an  asthmatic  watchman's 
rattle,  "  Maj-be  it's  with  bear's  meat  and  buffalo  as 
thej  Bay  'tis  with  human  flesh  ; — I  never  tasted  none  o' 
that ; — if  voii  eat  it  once,  you'll  have  to  again.  After 
you've  got  inured  to  the  AYest,  the  East's  too  close  and 
shut-up  and  cit)wded  for  you,  and  you  want  elbow- 
room  : 

"  'Why,  this  is  freedom;  these  pyore  skiea 
Was  never  soiled  with  city  sat!' 

as  our  great  national  poet,  AVhittier,  observes,  sir ; 
though  as  to  that,  the  Indian's  lodges  are  a  great  deal 
suttier  than  any  chimney, — to  those  under  'em,  at 
any  rate.  When  the  wind  blows  a-puffing  down  the 
hole  a-top,  it  seems  as  if  'twould  smoke  your  very  eyes 
out.  But  mark  my  words,  my  dear  young  friend,  no- 
body ever  got  nothing  wuth  having  yet,  without  suffer- 
ing some  lor't ;  and  I  have  got  the  vocabularies  com- 
plete of  twenty  Indian  dialects  I — think  of  that,  sir ; — 
think  of  that !'' 

"  Have  you,  indeed  ?"  said  \vicked  Herman,  with  an 
inward  chuckle  in  the  midst  of  his  woe.  "  How  hap- 
py it  must  make  you  !     How  long  has  it  taken  you  ?" 

"  Let  me  see.  Stop,  sir, — eighteen  hunderd  twen- 
ty-one, twenty-two,  twenty-three, — well,  about  thirty 
years,  sir." 

"  After  all,"  thought  Herman,  "  his  whim  is  a 
rarer  one,  but  why  is  it  at  all  more  absurd  than  that 
of  the  moneyed  man,  who  has  spent  the  same  time  in 
adding  to  his  ample  fortune,  by  less  harmless  means, 
perhaps,  some  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars,  which 
neither  he  nor  his  neighbours  will  ever  use,  but  which 
he  must  soon  leave  behind  him,  to  buy  very  likely  the 
destruction   of  his   idle  purse-proud  children  '«      Mr. 


132  HERMAN. 

Grubbe's  Indian  dialects  will  do  nobody  any  harm,  at 
any  rate,  even  if  they  do  nobody  any  good." 

Mr.  Gnibbe  lifted  up  liis  voice  the  while,  continu- 
ously :  "  I  hope  they  have  not  been  unprofitable  years, 
sir,  to  the  Injun,  any  more  than  to  me.  (It  was  his 
habit  to  speak  always  as  if  there  was  only  one  Indian, 
as  it  is  that  of  certain  other  philanthropists  to  speak 
as  if  there  was  only  one  slave  in  the  world, — pleasing, 
illusive  idea  !  Also,  he  was  subject  to  grammatical 
inconsistencies  and  entanglements  in  his  speech,  as  are 
most  of  those  who  labor  under  the  aforesaid  idiosyn- 
crasy.) If  he  has  taught  me  much,  I  hope  that  he  has 
learned  something  from  me  in  return.  According  to 
my  poor  ability,  I  have  labored,  I  trust  conscientiously, 
to  impart  unto  him  the  glad  tidings  of  great  joy,  sir. 
It  goes  to  my  heart,  as  I  tell  'em,  to  see  so  many  fine, 
brave,  copper-colored  fellers  a-going  with  their  horses 
and  feathers  and  fringes  a-rampaging  over  the  pur- 
rayra,  and  to  think  that  it  ain't  nothing,  as  you  may 
say,  but  a  great  green  sieve  to  let  'em  through  down  into 
hell-fire,  just  for  want  of  their  knowing  what  nobody'll 
take  the  trouble  to  come  and  teach  him,  and  what  no- 
body can  find  out  for  themselves ;  and  the  wicked 
trappers  going  and  telling  him  that  our  God  will  love 
him,  sir,  if  he'll  only  give  them  his  squaws  and  horses, 
and  let  'em  have  his  furs  reasonable,  sir !" 

"  It  does  seem  hard  and  discreditable  enough,"  an- 
swered Herman,  forgetting  that  he  was  thinking  aloud, 
"  that  we  should  live  on  near  them  so  lazily,  on  the 
very  lands  which  we  have  taken  from  them  or  from 
their  kindred,  and  do  nothing,  or  worse  than  nothing, 
for  these  poor  half-witted  children  of  our  Heavenly 
Father  j" 

"Half-witted,  did  you  observe,  sir?     No,  they  are 


THE    KNIGHT    AND    THE    BACKWOODSMA2s\  133 

not,  sir.  I  beg  your  pardon.  They're  (>?/.^witted  some- 
times,— more  shame  to  ns, — but,  if  they  had  as  mncli 
privileges,  they'd  be  every  bit  as  smart  as  you  or 
me,  sir." 

"  You  have  great  advantages  over  most  other  peo- 
ple in  judging  of  that.  I  wish  I  had  your  familiarity 
with  their  languages." 

"  Well,  sir,  it  is  an  advantage,  especially  to  the 
missionary.  The  interpreter  is  often  good-for-nothing. 
Why,  once,  when  I  fust  come  out  here,  a  lot  of  'em 
come  to  me,  a-seekin'  the  way  of  salvation;  and  I 
thought  I'd  do  my  best,  for  want  of  a  better,  to  make 
known  to  'em  some  of  the  plainest  doctrines.  So  I 
commoonicated  with  'em  through  my  interpreter,  and 
told  him  to  tell  'em  they  must  have  a  new  heart. 
What  should  he  go  and  do, — as  I  afterwards  found  out, 
— in  his  partial  acquaintance  with  their  dialect,  but 
tell  'em  they  must  git  a  new  gizzard  !  It's  enough 
to  make  one  weep.  Such  good  souls  as  they  are,  too, — 
some  on  'em.  They  had  ought  to  have  good  in- 
struction." 

"  You  like  them,  then,"  said  Herman,  absently ; 
"  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  ask  your  pardon ;  but  that's  just  as 
sensible  as  if  you'd  said,  '  Do  you  like  white  folks  ?' 
Some  on  'em  I  do ;  and  some  on  'em  I  don't.  I  like 
the  good  ones,  of  course ;  and  there's  some  o'  that  sort 
and  some  o'  the  other,  I  expect,  to  be  found  every- 
where :  though  the  traveller  ain't  apt  to  discover  it. 
Why,  when  I  was  to  Boston,  there  was  a  gentleman  in 
company  with  me  one  day,  that  had  just  been  to  Eng- 
land ;  and,  says  he,  '  The  Englishman  never  lauo^hs.' 
Well,  that  very  same  day,  a  couple  of  hours  afterwards, 
in  a  book-store,  I  took  up  a  book  of  travels,  or  letters. 


134  HERMAN. 

or  something,  by  an  Englishman  who'd  been  a-visiting 
our  country ;  and,  says  he,  '  The  American  does  not 
laugh.'  Well,  I  take  it,  the  one  statement  was  just 
about  as  reliable  as  the  tother.  One  on  'em  had  hap- 
pened to  have  fell  in  with  sober  Englishmen,  and 
the  tother  with  sober  Americans  ;  —  that  was 
all.  The  traveller  judges  according  to  what  he 
sees,  and  thinks  there  ain't  nothing  but  what  he 
doos  see.  Suppose,  now,  an  Injun  sets  off  to  travel 
to  Washington  about  a  treaty ;  and  he  goes  through 
Arkansaw,  and  somebody  gives  him  a  bottle  of  fire- 
water ;  and  he  goes  to  Kentucky,  and  somebody  points 
a  double  revolver  at  him,  and  tells  him  to  be  ofi". 
When  he  gets  back,  he'll  commoonicate  to  his  tribe, 
like  as  not,  that  the  folks  in  Arkansaw  is  all  kind  and 
friendly,  and  the  Kentuckians  miser' ble  wretches.  If 
he's  a  aggravating  Injun,  he'll  get  bad  treatment  every- 
where ;  and  then  he'll  come  back  and  say  all  the  white 
folks  are  bad.  Now,  I'm  fearful  the  white  man,  when 
he  gits  out  where  we're  a-going,  is  very  often  very  ag- 
gravating to  the  Injun.  You  can't  ascertain — ^mark 
my  words,  sir ! — whether  religion  and  civilization's  in- 
side of  a  man,  or  only  outside,  till  you  git  him  away 
from  his  folks.  If  he's  only  held  up  by  the  pressure  of 
proper  ways  and  people  around  about  him,  and  the 
eyes  of  his  neighbours  fastened  on  him,  he'll  fall  flat 
the  miimte  they're  taken  off,  just  as  he  will  hereafter, 
there's  too  much  reason  to  anticipate,  before  the  judg- 
ment-seat. Why,  how  many  'New  Englanders  out  of 
godly  Sabbath-keeping  families,  do  you  suppose,  sir, 
carries  the  Sabbath  with  'em  when  they  git,  for  in- 
stance, among  the  French,  who,  it's  stated,  haven't  got 
none  of  their  own?  Why,  judging  from  a  conversa- 
tion of  a  party  of  'em,  that  appeared  quite  respectable 


THE    KXIGHT    AND    THE    BACKW00DSAIA:N\  135 

and  consequential  people,  who'd  just  come  over  in  the 
steamship  when  I  was  a-stopping  to  the  Bromtield 
House,  I  should  think  none  too  many,  sir.  Why,  even 
the  young  ladies, — and  veryfineyoungladies  they  seemed 
to  be,  too,  and  conducted  with  much  propriety, — had 
been,  I  understood  from  remarks  I  beared  the  young  gen- 
tlemen make,  a-looking  on  and  laughing  to  places  of 
entertainment  to  Paris,  that  no  decent  pretty-behaved 
young  female  had  ought  to  know  so  much  as  the  name 
on,  sir !  Xow,  if  the  salt  is  a-going  to  lose  its  savour, 
every  time  it  comes  in  contact  with  anything  that  isn't 
salt,  where's  the  use  of  ha\dng  it  at  all,  I  say ;  and 
how  is  the  whole  earth  ever  going  to  get  salted,  if  even 
them  that  is  Christians  at  home  is  a-sfoinor  to  be 
Turks  in  Turkey?  They  may  conduct  becomingly 
enough  to  Boston,  and  Xew  York  City,  and  Cincinna- 
ter,  under  the  observation  of  their  folks ;  but,  as  like  as 
not,  the  moment  they  git  out  alone  on  the  purrayra, 
with  only  the  great  blue  eye  of  God,  if  I  may  say  so 
without  irreverence,  over  them,  they'll  he  to  the  Injun, 
and  cheat  him,  or  steal  his  corn  or  squashes  if  they 
have  a  good  chance,  or  kill  his  pig  or  his  cow,  and 
leave  their  consciences  to  home  with  their  best  vests 
and  pants,  and  take  'em  out  again,  all  as  good  as  new, 
when  they  git  back  there.  Then,  when  the  Injun 
finds  out  what  they've  been  up  to,  he's  indignant  natu- 
rally, sir  ;  and  not  being  able  to  get  redress  any  other 
way,  the  next  time  he  sees  a  white  man  come  prowling 
about,  perhaps  he'll  shoot  him ;  and  then  we  call  him 
a  sanguinary  tribe,  and  exterminate  him.  Yery  likely. 
Wa'n'twe  a  sanguinary  tribe  in  seventeen  seventy-five, 
and  shouldn't  we  be  again,  with  the  like  provocation, 
sir  ?    Why,  I  knew  a  young  gentleman,  who  come  out 


136  HERMAN. 

froiri  the  States,  a  while  ago,  with  the  express,  avowed 
purpose,  to  kill  a  Injun,  sir."* 

"  Infamous  !" cried  Herman ;  "  but  he  could  not  have 
been  in  earnest !     It  must  have  been  mere  bravado !" 

"  ^o,  it  was  not,  sir.  I  beg  your  pardon.  He  pur- 
posed it ;  and  he  did  it  too.  Now,  I  am  far  from  taking 
it  upon  me  to  say,  that  it  mayn't  be  necessary  to  shoot 
the  Injun  once  in  a  while,  in  self-defence  or  after 
judicial  inquiry  into  one  of  their  outrages  ;  but  if  the 
latter,  it  hadn't  never  ought  to  be  done  only  after  a 
very  dispassionate  examination.  Justice  has  got  two 
hands,  as  I  say,  and  had  ought  to  keep  one  for  the 
white  man, — he  wants  it  enough, — and  not  lay  'em 
both  on  the  red  man ;  and  then  she  wouldn't  have  so 
much  trouble  to  keep  him  in  order.  They're  like 
childrin — not  'half-witted  childrin'  as  you  observed, 
sir,  but  smart  childrin,  that  air  easy  put  out,  and 
knows  when  they're  imposed  upon,  and  don't  look  on 
things  just  as  we  do,  and  has  to  be  checked  once  in  a 
while  when  they  gits  too  obstreperous,  but  had  ought 
to  be  very  patiently  taught  and  kindly  and  forbear- 
ingly  treated,  generally,  and  protected  in  all  their 
rights,  and  always  will  be  by  well-principled  compas- 
sionate individuals." 

The  steamboat  was  just  then  coasting  along  one  of 
the  two  unfathomable,  gloomy,  trackless,  forests  that 
walled  the  river  on  eacli  side,  with  their  straight  stalks 
ahnost  branchless  to  the  tops  for  want  of  elbow-room, 
and  hung  about  with  gray  moss,  drooping  and  trailing 

*  "A  young  Kentuckian,  of  the  true  Kentucky  blood,  generous, 
impetuous  and  a  gentleman  withal,  had  come  out  to  the  mountains 
with  Russel's  party  of  Caliiornia  emigrants.  One  of  his  chief  objects, 
as  he  gave  out,  was  to  kill  an  Indian ;  an  exploit  which  he  afterwards 
succeeded  in  achieving,  much  to  the  jeopardy  of  ourselves,  and  others 
who  had  to  pass  through  the  country  of  the  dead  Pawnee's  enraged 
relatives." — The  California  and  Oregon  Trail," 2>P*  333-4. 


THE    KNIGHT    AND    THE    BACKWOODSilAN.  137 

like  the  dusty  ancient  cobwebs  of  the  lethargic  spi- 
ders, slumbering  out  their  century  in  the  undisturbed 
woods  around  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  Five 
minutes  before,  a  tall  and  shaggy  person  had  dropped 
on  board  from  an  overhanging  cotton-tree.  He  wore 
a  coat  of  buffalo-skin,  with  pistols  peeping  from  the 
breast,  and  a  knife  in  the  belt;  and  witli  the  affection- 
ate gripe  of  a  grizzly  bear,  he  hugged  a  rifle.  His 
head  was  thatched  with  a  great  abundance  of  straw- 
colored  hair ;  and  a  very  little  yellowish-brown  flesh 
padded  the  large  raw  bones  of  his  gaunt  face.  He  had, 
with  the  easy  affability  of  one  who  knows  that  he  can 
command  a  welcome,  joined  our  travellers  at  once, 
for  the  benefit  of  listening  to  their  conversation.  He 
had  since  occupied  his  time  profitably  in  a  leisui'ely 
rumination  upon  their  words  and  his  own  quids,  and  in 
freeing  his  utterance  from  the  stores  of  tobacco  which 
obstructed  it.  This  last  he  accomplished  satisfactorily 
by  ejecting  a  portion,  and  packing  away  the  rest  in  his 
pouches  like  a  monkey.  The  deck  of  his  speech  being 
thus  cleared  for  action,  he  began :  "  Gosh,  stranngers, 
yer  don't  mean  ter  say  yer  spoony  about  shootin  them 
thar  dog-goned  wild  Injuns,  be  yer?  Just  wait  till 
yer've  seen  some  o'  their  cussed  ways,  an  yer'll  think 
no  more  o'  that  nor  o'  shootin  any  other  kind  o'  var- 
mint, 'xcept  they  ain't  so  nice  to  eat." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Grubbe,  Avith 
awful  solemnity,  "I  am  acquainted  by  personal  ob- 
servation with  more  of  their  ways  than  I  should  expect 
to  learn  from  you  or  anybody  else,  sir ;  and  I  should 
hope  and  pray,  sir,  to  be  very  spoony,  indeed,  as  you 
were  pleased  to  denominate  it,  sir,  about  taking  away 
the  life  or  the  rights  of  any  of  God's  creaturs,  sir !" 

"Parson,  strannger?" 


138  HERMAN. 

"  No,  I  am  not,  sir ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  feel  as  a  Christian  man,  sir !" 

"  Ko  harm  in  that,  strannger,  sartin ;  an,  if  that's  all, 
I  don't  see  as  there's  anything  to  hinder  my  bringin 
yer  round  to  take  a  common-sense  view  o'  the  subject. 
^Life  an  rights  o'  God's  critters,'  says  you.  Ain't  buf- 
falo and  coon  God's  critters,  too;  and  can't  you  kill 
them,  when  they've  got  what  you're  in  need  on  to  eat 
an  to  wear?" 

"  Injuns  are  God's  immortal  creaturs,  sir." 

"  Be  they  ?     How  d'yer  know  ?" 

"Is  it  possible  you  are  so  benighted,  sir  ? — They 
have  souls,  sir." — 

"  Yes,  I'm  benighted,  I  reckon. — How  d'yer  know 
that?" 

"  They  have  reason  and  affection,  sir." 

"  Ugh !  Precious  little  on  it !  For  that  matter,  so 
has  dogs,  and  twice  as  much  on  it,  too ;  and  they  don't 
live  forever.  I  swow,  I  wish  they  did.  I'd  try  to  get 
a  change  o'  heart  for  the  sake  o'  seein  a  little  pinter  o' 
mine  again  the  tother  side  o'  Jordan.  I'll  be  durned 
if  that  little  critter  didn't  have  more  sense  nor  any 
Christian,  an  wa'n't  fonder  o'  me  nor  nobody  else  since 
I  lost  my  mam ;  an  that's  longer  ago  nor  I  can  remem- 
ber of.  When  he  took  sick,  I  lost  a  week's  prime 
huntin  a-nussin  on  him ;  an  when  he  licked  my  hand 
and  stretched  out  stiff, — I  don't  mind  ownin  up  to 
it, — I  blarted  right  out  jest  like  a  bossy-calf.  The 
bush  turned  lonesome,  an  empty,  an  ha'nted.  I  kep 
seemin  to  h'ar  his  racin  feet  a-comin  patterin  arter 
me;  and  then  'twould  seem  as  if  my  very  throat 
would  ha'  busted  right  up  like  a  steamer-biler,  to  think 
o'  all  his  pootty  fun,  an  capers,  an  frisks,  an  fawnins 
round  me's  bein  turned  fust  into  pain,  an  fright,  an 


THE    KXIGHT    AND    THE    BACKWOODSMAN.  139 

misery,  an  then  into  a  nasty,  stinkin,  little  lump  o' 
worms  an  carrion,  under  the  leaves  that  he'd  ha'  been 
so  glad  to  be  playin  with,  when  he  hadn't  done  a 
thing  under  the  sun  to  be  punished  for.  He  was  jest 
as  good  as  good  could  be,  an  minded  every  word  I  said 
to  him ;  an  I  couldn't  see  why  he  shouldn't  be  took 
up  an  rewarded  jest  as  much  as  anybody  else ;  so  the 
very  fust  camp-meetin  I  could  h'ar  on,  I  jest  took  a 
tramp  o'  forty  mile,  to  ask  a  parson  what  chance 
there  was  for  him ;  an  he  said,  none,  an  I'd  better  for- 
git  trifles,  an  think  o'  my  soul,  an  make  my  peace 
with  God ;  but  I  told .  him,  if  them  was  God's  ways 
with  innocent  critters,  I  reckoned  thar  wa'n't  no  great 
chance  with  Him  no-how  for  a  sinner  like  me ;  an  if  I 
did  make  the  peace,  I'd  be  likely  to  break  it,  an  cuss 
and  swear  like  the  devil,  whenever  I  thought  o'  poor 
Tip;  so  'twa'n't  hardly  wuth  a  while." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  interrupted  Mr.  Grubbe, 
addressing  himself  to  Herman,  "  I  regret  to  be  obleeged 
to  leave  you ;  but  I  don't  remain  no  longer  in  the  seat 
of  the  scorner.  I  had  hoped,  from  the  turn  of  your 
conversation  previously,  sir,  that  it  wouldn't  have  been 
necessary  to  warn  you  against  evil  commoonications ; 
but  you're  a-beginning  to  prove  what  I  was  a-observing 
of  just  now,  of  the  extraordinary  effect  on  weak 
brethren  of  a  change  of  sitooation."  He  rose  and  left 
the  guards. 

The  backwoodsman  pondered  an  instant,  unable  to 
comprehend  that  any  offence  could  have  been  given  by 
his  frank  statement  of  his  own  spiritual  case ;  but,  as 
the  meaning  of  Mr.  Grubbe's  elegant  language,  and  its 
application  to  himself,  dawned  upon  him,  he  sprang  to 
his  feet,  threw  his  hand  to  his  belt,  and  pulled  up  five 
or  six  inches  of  his  seemingly  interminable  knife.     The 


140  HERMAN. 

white  hairs  of  the  retreating  old  man  seemed  to  re- 
prove him,  however;  for  he  paused,  and  muttered, 
"  Too  dnrned  old  !  Fight,  strannger  ?"  continned  he, 
speaking  to  Herman,  who  liad  hitherto  sat  silent 
though  attentive,  "  I  reckon  yer  responsible  for  him  ?" 

''  Thank  you,"  said  Herman,  going  on  nonchalantly 
with  a  willow- whistle,  wdiich  he  was  making  for  the 
child  of  the  steward:  "We'll  have  a  fencing-match  by- 
and-By,  if  you  like,  if  we  can  find  any  foils ;  but  it's 
rather  warm  at  present  for  anything  of  that  sort,  and  I 
would  rather  sit  and  talk  a  little  longer  first.  I  was 
interested  in  w^hat  you  were  saying  about  your  poor 
little  dog.  If  I  had  been  present,  I  should  have  been 
disposed,  when  your  parson  said  there  was  no  chance 
for  it,  to  ask  him,  'How  do  you  know  that?'  as  you 
did  Mr.  Grubbe  just  now." 

"  I  bet  I  did,"  said  the  son  of  the  wilderness,  first 
puzzled,  then  appeased  ;  and  the  knife  sank  again  into 
its  place. 

"  What  answer  did  he  make  you  ?" 

"  D — d  bosh  !  I  disremember  half  on  it  now.  But 
he  said  that  all  that  critters  was  fit  for  was  eatin,  an 
drinkin,  an  sleepin,  an  fightin; — an  that's  all  that 
Injuns  is ; — an  in  heaven  thar  wouldn't  be  none  o'  that 
a-goin  on,  but  singing  psa'ms  an  praisin  the  Lord  ;  an 
critters  wa'n't  up  to  that ;  an  they  received  thar  good 
things  in  this  world,  and  thar  sufierins  wa'n't  much,  an 
was  the  'xception,  too,  and  not  the  rule,  so  they  didn't 
want  no  compensation." 

"  I  know.  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  of  that  sort  of 
special  pleading  myself;  and  I  do  not  relish  it  much 
more  than  you  do,  especially  from  clergymen.  I  am 
afraid  that  they  are,  some  of  them,  much  too  apt  to 
take  it  for  granted  in  the  first  place  that  a  thing  is  so, 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  BACKWOODSMAN.     141 

and  then  to  undertake  to  prove  that  it  ought  to  be  so, 
when  thej  know  neither  the  fact  nor  the  reasons. 
People  tell  us  a  good  many  things,  I  think,  in  the 
name  of  God,  that  God  never  told  them." 

"  Is  they  a  heaven  for  clever  brutes,  then,  do  jou 
reckon  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  there  are  stronger  reasons  for  be- 
lieving tliat,  than  for  believing  the  contrary." 

"  When  ye're  a  parson,  I'll  jine  yer  church." 

"  Very  well ;  when  I  am,  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  a 
hearer;  and  one  thing  you  may  be  very  sure  of,  that  I 
shall  not  undertake  to  serve  the  God  of  truth  bv  tellinor 
lies  nor  making  false  excuses  for  Him,  nor  by  pretending 
to  know  more  of  His  counsels  than  I  do.  This  matter  of 
the  future  state  of  the  dead.  He  has  left  almost  wholly 
wrapped  in  mystery.  Almost  the  only  thing  which  he 
has  told  us  clearly  about  it  is,  that  good  men  and  wo- 
men shall  be  very  well  off  after  they  leave  this  world  ; 
and  bad  ones,  very  badly.  Therefore,  if  you  ask  me 
whether  the  lower  animals  will  live  again,  I  tell  you 
honestly,  in  the  first  place,  that  I  do  not  know ;  but, 
in  the  second,  that,  as  I  said,  I  see  a  good  many  rea- 
sons to  encourage  us  to  hope  they  will ;  and  I  dare  say, 
that  there  are  a  great  many  besides,  that  I  have  never 
thought  of.  It  is  of  no  use  for  anybody  to  try  to  con- 
vince you  and  me,  that  the  domestic  animals  at  least, — 
the  only  ones  of  which  I  have  seen  much, — do  not  suf- 
fer, and  very  often  grievously,  in  their  life  on  earth. 
They  enjoy  more  than  they  sufi'er  usually,  it  is  very 
likely, — as  I  suspect  that  human  beings  do, — but  they 
suffer,  notwithstanding,  not  only  in  their  bodies,  but  in 
what  you  and  I  should  call  their  souls, — their  thoughts 
and  feelings, — perhaps  as  keenly  in  proportion  to  their 
power  of  enjoyment  as  we  do ;  and  past  pleasure  is  no 


142  .  HERMAN. 

more  a  compensation  for  present  pain  to  them  than  it 
would  be  to  iis." 

'Tm  blasted  if  'tis!  Poor  Tippy  wouldn't  ha' 
yowled  so  like  murder,  an  wriggled  round  on  his  bed, 
an  tried  to  stand  up  on  his  legs  an  foller,  when  he  seed 
me  a-goin  off  to  leave  him  a  spell  an  shoot  somethin 
for  us  to  eat,  if  he  hadn't  ha'  known  by  'xperience 
what  jolly  fun  'twas  for  him  to  go  along  an  help." 

"A  female  animal,  whose  young  are  taken  from  her, 
plainly  endures  the  same  kind  of  pain, — I  don't  say  the 
same  degree,  of  course, — that  a  woman  does  at  the  loss 
of  her  child.  It  is  not  bodily  pain  ;  if  it  is  not  spirit- 
ual, what  is  it?  Then,  the  merely  bodily  agonies  of 
beasts  are  often  such  as  you  and  I  are  not  ashamed  to 
confess,  that  it  almost  unmans  us,  not  only  to  witness, 
but  to  think  of.  Some  comparative  anatomists, — men 
of  science,  I  mean, — doctors, — are  in  the  habit  of  in- 
flicting tortures  even  on  poor,  harmless,  helpless,  hope- 
less dogs,  the  most  nearly  human  of  all  our  inferior 
animals,  which  it  would  be  very  hard  for  a  brave 
Christian  man,  with  heaven  in  full  view,  to  undergo 
for  the  sake  of  his  honor,  his  country,  or  his  religion." 

"Wot!  Think  if  they'd  ha'  cotched  my  Tip! 
Wouldn't  I  ha'  gin  'em ! — D'ye  ever  see  one  o'  the 
scoundrels  at  it  ?" 

"  Once." 

"  D'yer  gouge  him  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Why  the didn't  yer  ?" 

"  ]^ot  because  I  shouldn't  have  been  most  happy  to 
put  a  stop  to  his  proceedings,  in  some  way  or  other, 
you  may  depend  upon  it ;  but,  as  I  was  saying,  ani- 
mals do  suifer  in  this  world,  as  well  as  we,  for  no  fault 
of  theirs.     God  created  them  as  well  as  us,  and  gave 


THE    ICsIGHT    AND    THE    BACKWOODSMAN.  143 

them  a  great  love  of  enjoyment.  So  far,  we  are  treated 
alike.  He  is  eae^er  to  make  more  than  amends  to  us  in 
the  other  world  for  our  undeserved  troubles  here  ;  and 
therefore  it  seems  likely  that  He  is  going  to  do  some- 
thing of  the  same  sort  for  them, — not  to  make  them 
happy  with  our  degree  of  happiness,  any  more  than  He 
does  here,  but  very  happy  after  their  own  fashion, 
which  consists,  in  great  part,  like  ours,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  society  of  thase  to  whom  they  are  attached. 
God's  own  Son  said  that  God  fed  the  birds,  and  watched 
over  even  each  particular  sparrow.  It  seems  improba- 
ble that,  after  taking  care  of  any  creature  for  several 
years.  He  would  turn  against  it  on  a  sudden,  and  in- 
flict pain  or  death,  or  suffer  them  to  be  inflicted  upon 
it,  (when,  as  you  say,  it  has  done  nothing  to  be  pun- 
ished for,)  without  intending  to  comfort  and  revive  it. 
The  longer  we  take  care  of  anything,  the  more  we  love 
it.  One  of  those  good  men,  in  old  times,  who  knew 
God  best,  said  that  He  was  love  itself;  another  of  them 
declared  that  in  Him  was  no  variableness  nor  shadow 
of  turning,  and  that  every  good  gift  came  down  from 
Him.  jS^ow,  the  pity  which  we  feel  for  any  innocent  lov- 
ing creature  that  suffers  and  dies,  is  a  good  feeling, — a 
good  gift, — and  must  therefore  have  come  down  to  us 
fi-om  God.  Does  it  seem  at  all  likely  that  He  would 
have  given  it  all  away  to  us,  and  kept  none  for 
Himself?" 

"  Can't  say  as  it  doos." 

"  Further,  the  Bible  says  that  He  does  not  willingly 
aflilict  nor  grieve  the  children  of  men  ;  therefore  it 
should  seem  that  He  would  vdllingly  bless  and  comfort 
us.  When  His  Son,  our  Saviour, — who  was  of  course 
much  more  like  His  Father  than  any  other  person, — • 
was  on  earth,  he  seems  to  have  been  what,  if  he  had 


14:4  HERMA]^f. 

been  only  a  man,  we  might  call  a  symjDathizing,  kind, 
obliging  man.  He  used  his  wonderful  power  not  only 
to  show  that  he  was  really  God's  messenger,  which  he 
might  have  done  by  severe  and  terrible  miracles,  such 
as  calling  down  fire  from  heaven  on  those  who  dis- 
pleased him,  but  to  comfort  the  unhappy,  cure  the  sick, 
and  raise  the  dead  whom  the  living  were  crying  for." 

"  I  swow,  I  wish  he  was  back  again.  I'd  see  him, 
or  I'd  know  why  ;  an  wouldn't  I  ax  him  to  comfort 
me,  an  raise  up  that  dog !  You  see,  strannger,  I'm 
kinder  soft  along  o'him,  I  know;  but  I'm  thirty  year 
old,  as  near  as  I  can  guess;  an  I've  been  livin  alone  in 
the  bush  or  tlie  purr  ay  r  a  all  my  life  pootty  much  ;  an 
he  war  all  the  dad,  or  mam,  nor  brother,  nor  child,  as 
ever  I  had  to  car'  a  cuss  for  me ;  an,  now  he's  gone,  I 
haint  had  no  heart  to  git  another.  I  had  a  friend  an 
a  Injun  sweetheart  once;  and  they  run  off  together. 
When  I  cotched  up  with  'em,  I  put  a  ball  or  two 
through  him,  nat'rally,  and  she  hove  herself  into  the 
river;  so  thar  was  a  end  o'  that.  I  was  a  youngster 
then,  an  'twas  a  hull  year  afore  I  could  git  up  my 
sperits  ;  an  for  that  long,  I  skulked  mostly,  an  kep  out 
o'  everybody  else's  way.  Tip  was  nothin  but  a  pup, 
an  jest  a  little  spell  afore  that  thar  catasterphy,  I'd 
spied  him,  with  his  black  eyes  a-startin  out  of  his  head, 
a-strikin  out  an  fightin  like  mad  with  the  rapids,  whar 
a  pack  o'  little  cusses  had  soused  him  in,  to  look  at  him 
drownd.  I  was  so  tickled  to  see  his  pluck,  that  I 
stripped,  an  dowsed  in  arter  him,  an  fished  him  out,  an 
wallopped  'em  all  round;  an  he  never  forgot  it;  so 
when  I  jest  went  out  o'  sight  and  nowhere,  like  a  Will- 
o'-wisp,  he  follered  arter,  an  nosed  me  out.  I  war  beat 
out,  a-layin  under  a  palmetter  an  dreamin  skeery 
dreams ; — I  couldn't  git  shet  on  'em  them  times,  so  I 


THE    KXIGHT    AND    THE    BACKWOODSMAN.  145 

didn't  snooze  no  more  nor  I  conld  help ; — an  up  he 
come,  and  roused  me  out,  a-tumblin  over  me  an  scourin 
my  face  an  eyes  with  his  tongue,  an  sqnealin  for  joy. 
He  was  right  smart  of  a  hunter  a-ready,  an  could  allers 
cotch  enough  to  eat  when  he  wanted ;  but  he  was  jest 
as  lean  as  a  rail  then.  The  little  jackass  didn't  want 
nothin  else  till  he'd  got  me.  I  had  a  hard  scratch  on 
it;  an  he  w^as  the  only  livin  soul  as  come  a-nigh  to  me 
to  say,  Cheei*  up.  He  was  sorry  for  me  when  nobody 
else  war;  an  now  I  can't  help  bein  sorry  for  him.  If 
them  old  times  was  only  back,  or  if  I  could  see  the 
Lord  now^-a-days,  may-be  he'd  consider  the  sarcum- 
stances,  and  do  sothin  for  us." 

"  You  can  see  him  a  little  while  hence,  at  any  rate.'' 

"Wha'say?" 

"  Before  he  went  up,  he  left  this  word  behind  for 
anybody  who  wanted  him  :  '  If  any  man  serve  me,  let 
him  follow  me,  and  where  I  am,  there  shall  also  my 
servant  be.'  If  you  will  serve  him,  therefore,  in  this 
world,  you  can  see  him  after  you  leave  it." 

"  S'pose  he'd  do  any  thin  for  sich  a  miser'ble  black- 
guard ?" 

"  Certainly.  He  came  into  the  world  on  purpose 
to  look  after  and  rescue  miserable  blacko^uards.  But 
if  you  want  to  overtake  him,  I  should  advise  you  to 
follow  him  without  any  more  loss  of  time,  and  to  take 
care  not  to  step  out  of  his  track ;  for  if  you  once  lose  it, 
you  may  never  find  it  again." 

"  Blast  yer  !  (This  was  said,  not  for  anger,  but  for 
emphasis;)  ax  pardon, — but  d'yer  s'pose  I've  spent 
half  my  days  in  the  busli,  not  to  know  as  mucli  as  that 
thar?  Yer'll  find  I'm  a  pootty  plaguey  d — d  good 
heft  to  h'ist,  I'm  afeard ;  but  jest  yer  put  me  on  his 
track,  if  yer  can,  an  cotch  me  a-losin  on  it!'' 
7 


146  '  HERMAN. 

"  Leave  oif  swearing  then,  in  the  first  place,"  said 
Herman, — for  the  first  time  laying  down  his  work,  and 
raising  his  gaze  to  the  man's  face  not  so  sternly,  per 
haps,  but  as  firmly  and  fearlessly  as  a  keeper  does, 
who  quells  a  lion, — "  and  drinking  and  brawling." 

There  is  great  power  sometimes  in  a  clear  soul, 
looking  suddenly  through  a  clear  eye.  The  poor  ruf- 
fian felt  it,  and  his  sank  abashed  beneath  it.  "  Who's 
been  a-peachin  on  me,  strannger  ?"  said  he,  confused 
and  hesitating,  in  a  lower  tone. 

"  Your  own  tongue,  your  own  breath, — excuse  me, 
— and  your  own  knife.  Come,"  continued  Herman, 
kindly,  "  you  must  not  mind  my  knowing  it.  We  are 
fellow-strugglers  with  sorrow  and  sin.  I  have  had  my 
troubles,  and  thought  them  pretty  heavy  ones  ;  but  I 
see  now  that  they  were  scarcely  to  be  compared  with 
yours ;  and  God  only  knows  how  much  more  severe 
than  mine  your  temptations  may  have  been.  Besides,  we 
are  strangers,  and  may  never  come  in  each  other's  way 
again  unless  we  meet  up  there ;"  and  he  pointed  up 
into  the  deep  blue  sky  above  them,  looking  as  if  he  be- 
longed to  it.  "  I  hope  we  shall,  one  of  these  days,  and 
that  you  will  be  able  to  tell  me,  then,  that  I  did  some- 
thing to  help  you  up.  You  called  yourself  a  miserable 
blackguard  just  now,  and  I  thought  you  did  it  as  if 
you  meant  it,  like  an  honest,  open-hearted  fellow,  who 
wouldn't  bely  himself,  at  any  rate,  for  the  better  or  the 
worse.  What  then  ?  If  you  were  a  blackguard  yester- 
day or  this  morning,  is  that  any  reason  you  should 
be  one  this  afternoon  or  to-morrow  ?  Here,  I  will 
give  you  this,  to  show  you  your  way."  He  took  out 
his  pocket  New  Testament,  and  with  his  pencil  wrote 
most  of  the  Ten  Commandments  in  printing  letters  on 
the  fly-leaf.     "  You  can  read  ?" 


THE    KXIGHT    AND    THE    BACKWOODSilAN.  147 

"  I  reckon." 

"  All  that  we  need  is,  to  follow  the  directions  in 
this  little  book.  The  greatest  saint,  that  the  angels 
ever  rejoiced  over  and  welcomed  in  heaven,  could  do 
no  more  than  learn  and  obey  them." 

''  That  all  ?  A  man  might  do  that  much  without 
hurting  hisself,  I  reckon." 

'^  No  doubt ;  if  he's  a  manly,  resolute  man,  and 
knows  how  to  keep  his  purpose  in  sight,  and  run  it 
down,  and  how  to  face  the  difficulties  within  and  with- 
out him,,  and  put  them  down  by  main  force.  Are  you 
that  sort  of  character  ?" 

^'  I  be.  I  won't  say  no  good  o'  myself  that  ain't 
true,  an  that  ain't  much  ;  nor  I  won't  say  no  bad  o' 
myself  that  ain't  true,  an  that's  a'most  every  kind  o' 
bad ;  but  when  I  has  a  object,  I  sticks  to  it ;  an  when 
I  says  I'll  do  a  thing,  I  doos  it." 

^'  Good  !  You'll  do^  then.  Will  you  read  this 
book  every  day,  and  ask  God,  in  Christ's  name,  to  help 
you  to  understand  and  obey  it?" 

"  If  I  don't,  I'll  be  !— I  mean  I  will !  Jest  read 
some  on  it  out  to  a  feller  fust,wiUyer? — an 'twill  spell 
out  the  easier  for't,  may -be,  arterwards.  My  readin's 
got  a  bit  rusty,  I'm  afeared.  I  lamed  it  to  the  workus, 
whar  I  was  raised  ;  but  I  run  away  jest  as  soon  as  I 
war  big  enough ;  an  sometimes  I  been  a  year  or  two 
without  seein'  a  page  o'  print." — 

"  With  pleasure  ;  and  you  had  better  look  over  me, 
if  that  will  help  you.  I  will  mark  the  plainest  and 
most  important  parts,  too,  for  you,  so  that  you  can 
turn  to  them  easily  at  any  time." 

Pointing  to  the  words  with  his  pencil  as  he  slowly 
pronounced  them,  Herman  began :  " '  Thou  shalt  love 
the  Lord  thy  God,  with  all  thy  heart,  and  with  all  thy 


148  HERMAN. 

Boul.  and  with  all  thj strength,  and  with  all  thy  mind; 
and  thy  neighbour  as  thyself.'" 

"  That's  a  almighty  hard  un,  ain't  it,  to  start 
with  ?" 

''  Yes,  but  it  makes  all  the  others  easy  ;  and  it  is 
not  at  all  disagreeable,  either,  after  you  have  got  into 
the  way  of  it." 

"  Ye've  got  the  hang  on't,  I  reckon  ;  haint  yer  ?" 

"  I  am  trying  to  do  so ;  but  I  find  it  will  take  a 
good  deal  of  time  and  patience,  and  a  grent  many 
prayers,  to  bring  it  about.  The  nearer  I  get  to  it,  the 
pleasanter  I  find  it.  Love  is  the  most  delightful  feel- 
ing in  the  world.  Didn't  it  make  you  happy  to  love 
your  poor  dog  ?" 

"  I  reckon.  Yer  think  thar's  a  chance  for  me  to 
have  him  again,  then,  if  I  doos  it  all?" 

"  How  many  strange  ways  God  has,"  thought  Her- 
man, "  to  lead  His  lost  sheep  home  to  him  !"  "  Indeed 
I  do,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  whether  you  will  or  not  is  for 
God  to  say,  and  not  me.  Your  only  chance,  your 
business  in  the  first  place,  is  to  serve  and  follow 
Christ." 

But  was  it  not  wrong  in  Herman  to  try  to  cheat  the 
backwoodsman  into  being  a  Christian  ?  It  would  have 
been,  very,  if  he  had  done  so  ;  but  he  did  not.  If  he 
cheated  anybody,  it  was  himself  He  honestly  be- 
lieved every  word  that  he  said  upon  the  subject.  He 
habitually  believed  every  w^ord,  which  he  said  upon  any 
subject  whatsoever,  and  refrained  from  saying  anything 
which  he  did  not  believe.  ,  It  was  probably  this  evident 
heartiness  and  good  faith  on  his  part,  and  the  remark- 
able power  of  adaptation  and  mental  and  moral  sym- 
pathy, which  he  was  already  developing,  that  gave  to 
60  many  others,  wherever  he  went,  so  much  faith  in  his 


THE    KNIGHT    AND    THE    BACKWOODSMAN.  149 

words,  and  especially  in  himself,  and  that  gave  him 
from  this  time  forward,  more  and  more,  an  ascendency 
over  the  minds  of  the  doubting,  groping,  seeking,  and 
sorrowing,  which,  to  men  of  a  different  stamp  from 
himself,  seemed  altogether  marvellous  and  unaccounta- 
ble. He  w^as  very  heterodox,  perhaps,  on  this  occasion  ; 
but  if  so,  he  was  so  in  the  excellent  company  of  Bishop 
Butler.* 

"  Injuns  ain't  neighbours,  be  they  ?"  exclaimed  the 
proselyte,  striking  on  a  spiritual  snag. 

"  Certainly  ;  all  human  beings  are.  You  will  want 
to  know,  now,  how  I  know  that  Indians  are  human ; 
and  I  could  tell  you.  But  it  might  take  a  good  deal 
of  time:  and  we  shall  need  all  that  we  have  for  this 
book,  shall  we  not  ?" 

"  Be  I  bound  not  to  fight  'em  no  more,  then  ?" 

"  I  do  not  say  that  you  are  not  to  defend  yourself, 
if  they  attack  you ;  but  you  must  by  all  means  do  your 
very  best  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  them.  See  here," 
said  Herman  ;  and  turning  over  the  leaves,  he  found 
and  read  aloud,  "  '  If  it  be  possible,  as  much  as  lieth 
in  you,  live  peaceably  with  all  men.' " 

"  Wall,  but,  strannger,  I  h'ard  a  speecher  once 
a-speechifyin ;  an  he  said  'twas 'manifest  destiny/  — 
don't  that  mean  it's  all  right  ? — for  us  to  drive  'em  out, 
an  squat  on  thar  huntin-grounds ;  and  he  seemed  a 
larn'd  man." 

"  It  is  the  manifest  destiny  of  the  children  of  the 
devil  to  outrage,  rob,  and  murder  the  ignorant  and  de- 
fenceless ;  not  of  the  children  of  God." 

"  Wall,  now,  strannger,  doctors  differ.  I  was  on  a 
boat  a  spell  ago;  an  thar  was  the  cutest,  most  interestin 


See  "Analogy  of  Religion,"  Chap.  L 


150  HERMAN. 

little  chap  of  a  seven-jear-old,  ever  I  see,  a-coming  on 
from  Arkansaw  to  Mizzoura.  He'd  got  a  little  cow- 
hide, an  he'd  crack  it  around  his  ears  all  day  long, 
a-playin  overseer.  He'd  go  an  hide  by  the  door  o'  the 
cook-shop  ;  an  every  time  he  cotched  the  darky  cooky 
a-comin  in  or  out,  he'd  hit  him  such  a  crack  on  his 
stumps,  as  v^ould  make  him  skip  like  a  nanny-goat ; 
an  then  he'd  haw-haw  so,  you'd  hear  him  all  over  the 
steamer,  an  know  whg^t  he  was  about  in  a  second. 
Then  he'd  ax  everybody  to  loan  him  a  chaw  o'  tobacca. 
He  was  on'y  jest  a-larnin  ;  an  it  made  him  jest  as  sick 
an  yeller  as  death  ;  but  gosh,  he  didn't  mind  it  no 
more'n  nothin,  he  was  so  plucky ;  an  he'd  choke,  an 
chaw,  an  chaw,  an  choke,  w^ith  his  in'ards  all  up  in  his 
swoller,  jest  like  any  man.  I  never  saw  nothin  like  it. 
I  thought  I'd  ha'  gin  anythin  to  ha'  had  liim,  an  brung 
him  up  to  the  bush ;  an  the  fust  city  we  stopped  to, 
I  stepped  into  the  store,  and  bought  him  the  poottiest 
little  bowie  I  could  find. 

"  He  had  a  pootty  little  book;  an  says  I,  '  Jest  spout 
out  a  bit  on't,  an  let's  h'ar  yer.'  'Twas  all  about  Gin- 
eral  Cortes,  an  Bonyparte,  an  Walker,  an  them  cele- 
brated heroes  ;  an  it  said  that  civilized  folks  like  we 
are  oughter  conquer  folks  as  wa'n't  so  smart  an  en- 
lightened, an  instruct  'em.  '  Wall,'  says  I,  '  what 
d'yer  think  o'  that  thar  doctrine  V  '  Fus-rate,'  says 
ho.  '  How  be  yer  a-goin  to  apply  it  V  says  I.  Says 
he,  '  When  I  gits  to  home,  the  fust  thing,  I'll  take  an 
conquer  away  Bubby's  garden  ; — 'cause  he's  on'y  a  four- 
year-old,  an  so  stupid  he  can't  raise  nothin ; — an  plant 
it  all  with  mint  for  juleps.  My,  ain't  they  prime!' 
'  Wall,  but,'  sa^^s  I,  '  that's  on'y  a-conquerin  on  him. 
Yer  know,  arter  that,  yer've  got  to  I'arn  him.'  '  I'll 
I'arn  him,'  says  he,  a-cockin  his  eye  at  me.     '  Yer  will, 


THE    KNIGHT    AND    THE    BACKWOODSMAN.  151 

will  yer  ?'  says  I.  '  What'll  yer  Tarn  bim  ?  To  make 
juleps  too  V  '  Cotch  me  !'  says  he,  as  bluff  as  a  buf- 
falo ;  ^'11  I'arn  him  to  keep "^  off.'  ^  That  won't  do, 
though,'  says  I,  '  'cause  he's  yer  brother  ;  an  ye're  the 
biggest,  and  strongest,  an  smartest ;  so  yer'd  ought  ter 
be  good  to  him  an  take  car  on  him  ;'  but  I  thought  the 
book  was  right  enough  in  gineral." 

"  ISTever  mind  that  book.  It  was  only  some  man's. 
This  is  God's.  It  is  full  of  directions  to  us  to  deal  very 
justly  and  forbearingly  with  all  men  ; — as  we  shall 
naturally,  if  we  love  them; — and,  of  course.  He  who 
made  all  men,  knows  best,  and  has  the  best  right  to 
say,  how  they  ought  to  be  treated.  Suppose  now  a 
father  had  six  sons,  and  gave  them  each  some  land ; 
and  five  of  them  were  fine,  strong  fellows,  and  always 
knew  what  they  were  about ;  but  the  sixth  was  an 
idiot?" 

"  What's  that  ?  a  nat'ral  ?" 

"  Yes.  What  should  you  think  they  would  do  with 
him?" 

"  Wall,  I  dunno.  Wouldn't  think  thar  was  much 
they  could  do  with  him,  on'y  keepin  him  out  o'  harm's 
way, — see  that  he  could  git  enough  to  eat  an  drink,  an 
that  nobody  didn't  impose  on  him,  I  s'pose." 

'^  But  suppose  he  was  wasteful,  and  quick-temjpered^ 
and  troublesome  ?" 

"  What  o'  that  ?     He  wouldn't  know  no  better." 

''  What  if  they  robbed  him  of  what  his  father  gave 
him,  or  cheated  him  out  of  it,  and  beat  and  killed  him, 
or  drove  him  away  to  starve  ?" 

"  What  then  ?  Why,  then  I  would  on'y  like  to  see 
'em  at  it  when  I  was  by,  the  thunderin  mean  bullies  ! 
I'd  think  thar  scalps  was  a  heap  too  nice  night-caps 
for  'em ;  an  I'd  have  'em  off,  too,  if  they  wa'n't  stuck  on 


152  HERMAN. 

an  everlastin  sight  tighter  nor  most  folks's  be  !  That's 
all  the  what !" 

"  Good  !  Your  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  I  see ; 
though  you  must  not  be  cruel  even  to  the  cruel.  Scalp- 
ing and  gouging  are  too  savage  punishments  for  a 
Christian  man  to  inflict  on  the  most  unchristian  of 
men  ;  and  yon  must  not  be  too  ready  to  take  the  law 
into  your  own  hands.  But,  now,  the  next  silly,  pro- 
voking Indian  you  meet,  going  along  bedizened  out  in 
his  finery, — or  lazy,  stupid  negro,  either, — say  to  your- 
self, '  There  goes  my  heavenly  Father's  poor  under- 
witted  son ;  and  I  must  see  how  gently  and  generously 
I  can  bear  with  his  ignorance  and  folly.  If  I  can,  I 
will  do  him  some  good.  At  any  rate,  no  one  shall  do 
him  any  harm  that  I  can  help.'  " 

"  What  I  niggers  neighbours,  too  ?" 

"  All  men, — black,  white,  and  red." 

"  Niggers  an  Injuns  be  kinder  wantin,  then,  arter 
all,  ain't  they  ?" 

"  The  average  of  them  are^  at  present,  I  should 
think,  very  much  below  the  average  of  white  Ameri- 
cans, in  intellect.  The  difference  between  them  and 
natural  idiots,  however,  is  considerable,  I  suspect,  in 
this  ; — that  idiots  are  ignorant  and  shiftless^  chiefly  be- 
cause they  can't  be  taught  much,  and  Indians  and 
negroes,  because  they  haven't  been." 

"  Ax  pardon  for  interruptin  on  yer.  Fiddle 
away." 

Herman  read  on  several  pages. 

"  Seems  to  me,"  said  his  disciple,  "  God  don't  say 
so  much  about  a  change  o'  heart  as  the  parsons  doos. 
Hain't  I  got  to  go  through  that  ?  I'd  be  glad  to  git 
shet  on't,  if  I  could.  I'm  bound  to  stan'  it  anyhow 
without  hollerin,  as  the  gals  an  some  o'  the  fellers  doos, 


THE    K^^GHT    A2sD    THE    BACKWOODSMAN.  153 

if  it  did  hurt  like  murder,  but  they  says  some  folks 
loses  thar  wits  under  the  torment,  an  doesn't  never  git 
'em  again." 

"  I  don't  recollect,  that  God  anywhere  says, that  He 
should  wish  to  alter  a  heart,  which  was  already  full  of 
love  to  Him,  to  Christ,  and  to  His  other  children,  and 
of  an  earnest  wish  to  serve  Him  and  them.  So  far  as 
our  hearts  are  not  in  this  state,  they  need  to  be  changed, 
no  doubt ;  but  we  shall  he  very  glad  to  have  them,  if 
we  know  what  is  good  for  us.  Has  not  yours  changed 
a  little,  this  afternoon  ?  Don't  you  already  feel  more 
hope  of  God's  taking  pity  on  you,  and  more  disposition 
to  do  good  to  others,  than  you  did  ?" 

"  I  reckon." 

"  Yery  welL  Does  that  change  make  you  wish  to 
shout,  and  scream,  and  go  into  fits  ?" 

"  AY  all,  no  ;  it's  kinder  soothin  to  h'ar  o'  the  Lord's 
bein  my  Father,  an  folks  bein  my  brothers,  'cause  I 
never  had  none  afore  ;  an  I  allers  tho't  'twould  be  kind 
o'  social  if  I  could. — Hain't  I  got  to  have  no  conviction 
o'  sin  ?" 

"  Can  we  help  having  it,  when  we  compare  our 
lives  with  that  of  Christ  ?" 

"Wall,  I  dunno.  I  wouldn't  s'pose  yer'd  never 
done  nothin  so  very  vicious." 

Poor  Herman !  He  colored  after  his  boyish  fashion. 
He,  to  whom  it  was  almost  like  literal  self-dissection  to 
show  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  his  inner  man  to  his  deli- 
cate, tender,  sympathizing  Clara,  to  be  called  upon  to 
shrive  himself  to  this  shaggy  Faun  !  The  latter  mis- 
understood his  reserve,  and  looked  surprised  and  dis- 
appointed. 

"  Wall,"  said  he  after  a  pause,  administering  en- 
couragement in  his  turn,  "  the  best  on  us  miss  it  some- 


151  HERMAN. 

times ;  an  least  said  is  soonest  mended.  I  wouldn't 
ha'  tlio't  it  on  yer,  but  may -be  yer  was  too  young  to 
know  no  better ;  an  anyhow  tain't  for  me  to  say  no- 
thin  ;  an  thar's  time  enough  afore  yer  to  make  up 
for't." 

It  served  Herman  right,  and  did  him  good. 

"  You  mistake  me !  you  mistake  me  !"  cried  he, 
raising  his  fine  head,  with  a  face  as  clear  as  his  con- 
science, and  with  all  the  free  glad  grace  of  his  happi- 
est moments.  "  No  one  can  accuse  me  of  any  crime, 
from  my  infancy  to  this  day.  Judged  by  man's  moral 
laws,  I  am  innocent ;  but  God's — do  not  you  see  it  ? — 
are  broader.  Man  says,  '  Do  nothing  that  I  call  evil.' 
God  says,  '  Do  no  evil,'  too  ;  but  also,  and  just  as  pos- 
itively, '  Do  good.'  This  I  have  not  done  hitherto. 
That  is  my  sin.  I  have  had  friends,  knowledge,  hap- 
piness, and  time.  I  have  known  that  many  of  my  poor 
brothers  in  the  world  were  ignorant,  friendless,  and 
unhappy  ;  but  yet  I  have  been  contented  to  sit  at  home 
at  my  ease,  and  keep  all  my  good  things  to  myself,  and 
might  have  been  so  all  my  life,  if  He  had  not  sent 
me  trouble  to  take  such  unworthy  contentment  away. 
Was  not  that  selfish,  stingy,  mean?  What  can  our 
Father  think  of  me?" 

"  Ye  ain't  to  home  now,  anyhow.  Whar  be  yer 
goin  to;  an  what's  yer  business  ?" 

"  To  the  West,  to  help  some  Indians  to  keep  their 
hunting-grounds." 

"  He'll  forgive  yer,  I  reckon,  I  would,  in  His 
place." 

"  If  I  truly  repent.  He  will  forgive  me  that,  with 
my  great  advantages,  I  have  done  so  little  good.  If 
you  truly  repent,  he  will  forgive  you  that,  with  your 
great  disadvantages,  you  have  done  so  much  evil.     But 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  BACKWOODSMAN.      155 

we  have  both  of  us  broken  His  laws.  We  both  need 
repentance." 

^'  Jest  jou  tell  a  feller  what  that  thar  is,  in  a  com- 
mon-sense way." 

"  Repentance  ?  There  are  different  kinds  of  it. 
The  best  kind  is  what  we  should  wish  for,  of  course ; 
and  that  is,  as  I  understand  it,  such  a  hatred  and  dread 
of  our  past  sins  as  would  keep  us  from  ever  indulging 
in  them  any  more,  if  temptations  to  them  thrust  them- 
selves in  our  way  never  so  invitingly, — such  as  would 
make  it  as  impossible  for  us  to  wish  to  indulge  in  them, 
as  it  would  be  for  us  to  wish  to  taste  the  most  delicious 
food  in  the  world,  if  we  knew  that  it  had  ratsbane  in 
it.  It  is  a  hearty  sorrow  for  having  displeased  our 
Father  and  ill-used  our  brothers,  and  gives  us  such  a 
longing  to  serve  Him  and  them,  that  we  cannot  be 
easy  without  doing  it.  Xow,  do  you  think  that  a 
raving  maniac  can  serve  them  to  much  advantage  ?" 

"  I'd  full  as  lieves  he  wouldn't  undertake  to  sarve 
me,  for  one." 

"  To  be  sure.  A  wise  man,  who  wishes  to  serve 
them  will  be  scarcely  more  ready  to  craze  himself  with 
fanaticism  than  with  drink." 

The  supper-beU  rang.  Herman  would  gladly  have 
disregarded  it,  in  order  to  prolong  the  conversation  ; 
but  his  new  friend  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  presence 
of  mind,  which  showed  that  he  hungered  and  thirsted 
for  something  else  besides  righteousness.  As  he  did 
so,  however,  he  stretched  out  his  huge  brown  paw  for 
the  book,  and,  touching  it  gingerly,  accommodated  it 
with  a  nook  among  the  pistols  in  his  furry  breast ;  and 
this  Herman  inwardly  hailed  as  a  good  sio^n. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  sat  Mr.  Grubbe,  indulging 
In  a  sulk  sanctimonious.     The  backwoodsman  seemed 


156  HERMAN. 

to  have  ibrgotten  the  grudge  he  owed  him,  or  else  to  be 
disposed  to  offer  it  up  as  a  first-fruit,  on  the  altar  of 
his  reformation.  He  handed  the  old  man,  in  succes- 
sion, all  the  viands  within  the  reach  of  his  long  arm.  Mr. 
Grubbe  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  refuse  all  refresh- 
ment at  hands  so  unholy,  and  thus  soon  found  himself, 
to  Herman's  extreme,  though  carnal,  diversion,  re- 
duced to  a  somewhat  ascetic  banquet  of  tea  and  pickles. 
The  novice  fed,  notwithstanding,  freely  and  phlegmat- 
ically  ;  and  then,  the  sun  having  meantime  gone 
below,  immediately  followed  its  example.  Herman 
availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  to 
soothe  Mr.  Grubbe,  who,  he  saw,  had  something  still 
undigested  besides  the  pickles,  which  last  he  thought,  by 
themselves,  likely  to  be  quite  enough  for  him  at  one 
time.  Towards  Herman,  however,  he  was  rather  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger : 

"I  could  never  have  believed  it  of  you! — to  waste 
just  one  and  three-quarters  of  the  blessed  hours  that 
we've  all  got  to  render  an  account  on,  by  my  watch 
that  hasn't  lost  ten  minutes  these  twenty  years,  and 
spend  it  with  a  drinker  and  a  swearer !" 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  I  was  not  drinking  nor  swear- 
ing with  him  !     Did  you  suppose  that  I  was  ?" 

"  Evil  couimoonications,  sir,  evil  commoonications  ! 
How's  this  earth  ever  a-goin  to  be  salted,  as  I  say  ?" 

"  How,  indeed,  if  the  salt, — supposing  you  do  me 
the  honor  to  believe  me  to  have  a  grain  of  it, — is  never 
to  be  suffered  to  come  in  contact,  for  any  purpose,  with 
anything  which  is  not  salt  ?  That  is  not  so  very  ill- 
intentioned  a  fellow,  after  all.  He  has  been  reasoning 
of  righteousness,  and  temperance,  and  judgment  to 
come,  half  the  afternoon,  and  gone  off  to  bed  with  my 
New  TestaiuL'Dt  in  his  pocket." 


THE     KNIGHT    AND    THE    BACKWOODSitAN.  157 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  I  want  to  know  !  My  dear 
young  friend  !  I've  been  a-judging  of  you;  and  I  ask 
your  pardon.  Why,  it's  little  short  of  a  miracle !  Do 
you  think  it's  genoowine  ?  Why,  he  swore  so  that  he 
made  my  very  hair  stand  on  end !" 

(Mr.  Grubbe's  "  very  hair "  was  a  wig.  It  was 
apt  to  stand  on  end.  Perhaps  he  chose  it  on  that 
account, — when  his  own  locks,  untimely  loosened  and 
uprooted,  it  may  be,  by  being  too  frequently  called 
upon  to  render  that  token  of  sympathy  with  his  emo- 
tions in  view  of  the  depravity  of  his  fellow-men,  fell 
off  and  forsook  him, — thinking  it  most  in  keeping  with 
his  most  habitual  frame  of  mind.) 

"  He  is  trying  to  leave  that  off,  with  remarkable 
success,  I  think,  for  so  new  a  convert.  He  seems 
very  much  in  earnest  altogether,  jnst  now,  and  a  very 
simple-hearted,  open,  childlike  soul.  Xobody  can  tell 
how  long  it  may  last ;  and  I  am  afraid  there  must  be 
a  great  many  things  against  him,  poor  fellow!  But 
any  one  who  has  the  gospels  in  his  hand  and  head  has 
a  spar  to  cling  to  that  will  bring  him  into  port,  if  he 
will  but  stick  to  it,  and  go  where  it  draws  him." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  render  you  all  the  assist- 
ance in  my  power  in  your  work  of  grace.  Shall  I  con- 
verse with  him  as  one  under  awakening  or  con- 
viction ?" 

"  Why, — thank  you, — I  hardly  think  I  need  trouble 
you.  I  am  afraid  two  spiritual  guides  at  once  might 
be  one  too  many  for  him,  and  confuse  him." 

''  On  the  contrary,  in  the  multitude  of  counsellors 
there  is  safety.  What  method  have  you  pursued  with 
him  ?" 

"  Why,  a  very  unmethodical  method,  I  believe  it 
must  have  been,  if  any.  What  one  do  you  find  an- 
swers best  with  the  Indians  ?" 


158  HEKMAN. 

"  Oh,  I  tell  'em  in  the  first  place,  of  course,  you 
know,  that  they  must  git  a  new  heart,  and  that  there's 
only  One  above  that  can  give  it  to  'em  ?" 

"  And  do  they  get  it  ?" 

"  Well,  some  doos,  and  some  doosn't." 

"  And  when  they  have  got  it,  what  do  they  do 
next?" 

"Why  they  leave  off  drinking,   and   tobacco,   and 
dancing,  and  stay  in  their  lodges  on  Sabbaths." 

"  Leave  off  dancing  ?     Why  ?" 

"  Because  they  are  God's  people,  sir.  Herodias 
danced." 

"  But  did  not  Miriam  ?" 

"  That  was  under  the  old  dispensation." 

"  But  is  it  possible  that  you  can  see  any  harm  in  it, 
— in  all  kinds  of  dancing,  I  mean  ?  Some  sorts  do  not 
seem,  even  to  me,  altogether  good,  I  admit,"  added 
Herman,  remembering  with  a  thrill  of  melancholy 
pleasure,  how  Constance  had  appeared  to  enshrine  her- 
self in  his  mind  by  her  unvarying  refusal  to  join  in  any, 
which  seemed  too  rude  and  too  familiar  to  her  coy,  re- 
tiring, sacred  maidenhood. 

"  Do  you  call  j^ourself  a  professor,  sir,  and  ask  such 
a  question  ?"  said  Mr.  Grubbe,  indignantly.  Never 
travelling  on  Sunday,  he  thought,  and  rightly,  that  at 
one  town,  where  they  went  to  different  churches,  Her- 
man had  stayed  to  the  Communion. 

"  A  professor !"  cried  Herman,  thoroughly  puzzled, 
"  no,  indeed  !  Of  what  ?  Dancing?  I  thought  you 
knew  that  I  was  a  young  lawyer,  but  just  admitted  to 
the  bar." 

"  Of  religion,  sir.  Many  younger  than  you  have 
been  admitted  to  the  fold ;  and  I  thought  you  had 
been.     Excuse  me.     I  cannot  jest  r>r^  such  a  subject. 


THE    KNIGHT    AXD    THE    BACKW00DSMA2s\  159 

"  Keither  can  I,  believe  me,"  said  Herman. 
"I  misunderstood  you,  and  now  you  misunderstand 
me.  Among  us  at  home  a  professor  is  only  a  teacher, 
properly  an  academical  teacher,  of  some  branch  of 
learning.  I  never  heard  the  title  given  before  to  a 
communicant,  as  such." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir.  I  was  born  and  bred  in 
Xew  England,  as  well  as  yourself;  and  I  have  beared 
it  from  the  cradle  up  ;  you  must  have  beared  it ;  but 
you  may  have  obliviscited.!' 

Herman  was  waked,  as  it  seemed  to  him  in  the 
middle  of  the  following  night,  by  a  noise  in  his  state- 
room. On  opening  his  eyes,  however,  he  perceived 
that  it  was  light,  and  saw  the  face  that  the  noise  be- 
longed to. 

"Hope  I  hain't  disturbed  yer,  strannger;  but  I 
reckoned  yer  might  be  over-sleepin." 

'^  What's  the   matter  ?"    cried   Herman,   simultane- 
ously, starting  up  in  his  berth  ;  "boat  on  a  sawyer T'' 

"  No,  but  I  be.  Here's  a  gol-durned  word, — ax  par- 
don, didn't  go  fur  tur  say  that  thar, — that's  got  twice 
as  many  letters  to  it  as  any  two  words  has  any  busi- 
ness to  have ;  an  it  won't  spell  for'ards  nor  back'ards, 
nor  up  nor  down  ;  nor  I  can't  make  no  head  nor  tail 
on't."  Hereupon  the  book  was  thrust  into  Herman's 
good-humored  countenance.  He  pronounced  the  word, 
and  sank  back  again  on  his  pillow  with  a  sleepy  sigh. 
'•  Tired  o'  sleepin,  strannger  ?  Sun's  been  up  most  a 
hour.  Mind  tur  come  out,  an  have  another  spell  o' 
readin  ?" 

"  Yes,  I'll  be  with  you  as  soon  as  I  can  dress,"  said 
Herman ;  and  presently  again  the  moments,  the  boat, 
and  the  river,  rushed  on  together  towards  their  end. 


160  HERMAN. 

while,  scarcely  marked  along  the  banks,  the  little  reg- 
iihir  rows  of  cotton- trees  of  two  years'  growth  looked 
over  the  heads  of  the  cotton-trees  of  one,  and  the  cot- 
ton-trees of  three  years'  growth  over  those  of  two,  as, 
in  a  republican  aHstocracy,  families  of  two  generations' 
*'  respectability,"  in  some  rare  instances,  look  down  on 
families  of  one,  and  families  of  three  generations'  on 
families  of  two  ;  and,  scarcely  marked,  the  tiny  young 
leaves  began  to  come  out,  and  thicken  through  the 
gray, grim  woods  with  a  mist  of  green;  and  here  and 
there  the  lovely  red-bud  spread  its  thin,rosy  veil  of  mimic 
peach-blossoms  over  the  mysterious  labyrinthine  depths 
of  the  trackless,  boundless  forests  ;  while  still  the  rough 
huntsman  of  the  West  and  the  graceful  scholar  of  the 
East  hung  together,  fellow-students  and  learners  both, 
over  those  few  wondrous  pages,  which  have  power  to 
make  the  unlearned  wise,  and  the  wisest  feel  himself 
ignorant;  and,  hour  by  hour,  they  gained  upon  the 
spring. 


THE     LAi<rD    OF    SCJNSET.  161 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE     LAND     OF    SUNSET. 

'♦  I  venerate  the  pilgiim's  cause, 
Yet  for  the  Indian  dare  to  plead.     *    *    * 
His  heraldry  is  but  a  broken  bow, 
Hi3  history,  but  a  tale  of  wrong  and  woe  ; 
His  very  name  must  be  a  blank." 

Speague. 

The  flanking  hills  were  passed.  Herman  stood  at 
the  foot  of  those  mysterious  towering  walls  of  rock, 
which  the  mythical  Great  Wolf  and  Gray  Bear  pawed 
up  from  the  plain  in  their  horrid  fight,  in  ages  gone 
before  Man  came  to  see  and  to  record  ;  whose  story,  if 
Tradition  tries  to  tell,  she  can  but  tell  a  lie ;  whose 
chronicles  Geology  can  but  stammeringly  half-spell  and 
half- conjecture  from  the  half- effaced  stone  hiero- 
glyphics rudely  graven  there  and  then  by  the  con- 
vulsed uncertain  hand  of  N^ature  in  her  throes  ;  and 
whose  full  history  we  can  read  only  in  the  other  world 
and  from  the  memories  of  angels.  Before  him,  at  last, 
stood  the  Rocky  Mountains, — say,  rather,  the  mount- 
ains of  rock !  Heaped,  piled,  jumbled,  and  tumbled 
together  and  upon  each  other,  the  huddled  petrified 
Titans,  their  craggy  loins  girt  about  with  fringy  firs 
and  their  heads  capped  with  eternal  snow,  sat,  stood, 
and  climbed  on  one  another's  shoulders  tumultu- 
ously,  lifting  their  white,  splintered,  bristly  chins,  to 
beard  the  calm,  clear  sky  above  them,  which  seemed  to 
answer  in  the  silence,  as  with  the  voice  of  God,  "  Ye, 
even  ye,  shall  perish  and  crumble  into  dust ;  yet  I  shall 
endure  I" 


162  HERMAN. 

The  caravan  began  to  climb.  Herman  could  not 
yet.  Hastily  dismounting  and  ordering  Bernard,  his 
French  guide,  to  wait  for  him  with  his  horse,  he  en- 
tered one  of  those  dim,  weird,  and  wild  ravines,  which 
burrow  through  the  ridges  here  and  there.  The  sad 
wind  sang  and  played  through  it,  as  if  on  an  ^olian 
harp,  the  dirges  of  departed  days  and  hopes, — the  woo- 
ing hymns  of  yearnings  and  aspirations  too  sweet  and 
high  to  be  foregone, — too  vague,  perhaps  too  heavenly, 
to  be  ever  satisfied  on  earth.  Around  him  the  shady  pine- 
boughs  shivered  with  the  startled  rustling  of  the  nest- 
ling owls  that  haunted  them.  At  his  feet  lay,  out- 
stretched and  still,  a  black  pool,  the  remains  of  w4iat 
had  been  a  height-born  torrent.  It  had  danced  in 
light.  It  had  done  its  work.  It  had  died  in  darkness. 
Who  had  missed  or  mourned  for  it?  Not  one.  Far 
up,  and  up,  and  up,  through  the  narrow  jagged  rent 
above  him,  perhaps  beyond  his  power  to  climb,  almost 
beyond  his  sight,  the  lonely  misty  face  of  the  overhang- 
ing mountain  looked  blankly  down  upon  him,  like  the 
pale  ghost  of  human  godliness,  a  little  above  our  com- 
mon w^alks   and  infinitely  below  heaven. 

The  solitude,  the  silence,  the  chill,  the  vastness,  the 
everlastingness,  benumbed  him.  He  courted  it  only 
the  more,  that  perhaps  it  might  benumb  his  sorrow. 
He  sought  to  freeze  and  kill  and  bury  in  it  the  cease- 
less pain  of  his  own  consciousness.  He  measured  his 
puny  human  stature,  in  thought,  with  the  precipices, 
— the  stunted  firs,  even, — about  him,  and  strove  to 
teach  his  chafing  mind  to  say  within  him,  "  What  mat- 
ter if  this  pigmy, — this  insect, — sufiers  in  its  little  day? 
The  pang  is  scarcely  come  before  it  is  past.  The  sigh 
gives  place  to  the  death-rattle,  and  the  breast  is  breath- 
less.    The  corpse  is  dust;  the  name  forgotten.     The 


THE     LAXD    OF    SUNSET.  163 

mountain  stands.  The  earth  rolls  round.  The  uni- 
verse still  marshals  on  its  darting  suns  and  systems. 
God  rejoices.     All  is  well." 

Ah,  Herman, — in  vain !  "What  man  ever  yet, — 
self-conscious  man  ! — drew  peace  and  comfort  out  of 
thoughts  like  these  ?  One  little  human  soul  is  wider, 
longer,  to  itself,  than  space  or  time.  His  sorrow  came 
back  and  looked  him  in  the  face,  as  if  with  the  face  of 
his  love,  and  said,  "  True,  thou  art  little,  and  the  earth 
is  great ;  and  yet, — behold  I  show  thee  a  mystery, — the 
heart  of  any  man  is  large  enough  to  hold  as  much  as 
the  whole  full  earth  can,  of  joy  or  woe  for  him  !" 

He  heard  in  the  breathless  "  hush  of  the  air  "  the 
hiss  of  Satan,  whispering  despair  to  him  ;  as  is  his  wont 
when  he  finds  melancholy  men  alone  in  desert  places. 
He  fell  on  his  knees  and  prayed :  and  uuseen  angels 
came  and  ministered  unto  his  fasting  spirit ;  and  his 
faith  came  back  and  looked  him  in  the  face,  as  with 
the  face  of  the  Christ  yet  uncrowned,  and  said,  ''Could 
ye  not  watch  with  me  one  hour  ?  What  I  do,  thou 
knowest  not  now,  but  thou  shalt  know  hereafter.  Fol- 
low me  ;  and  where  I  am,  there  shall  also  my  servant 
be.  He  that  cometh  to  me  shall  never  hunger." 
He  came  forth  again,  with  a  countenance  shining  as 

"  Monssa's  cheek,  when  down  the  mount  he  trod, 
All  glowing  from  the  presence  of  his  God." 

Bernard  saw  the  change  in  him,  was  surprised,  and 
asked  him  what  he  had  found.  "  Peace,"  he  could 
have  answered  ;  but  he  evaded  the  inquiry,  and, 
snatching  from  him  the  rein  of  his  own  shaggy  Indian 
pony,  was  in  the  high-peaked  saddle  in  an  instant,  and 
preparing  to  give  himself  up,  heart  and  soul,  to  the 
wild  delight  of  a  headlong  ride  on  a  worthy  steed. 


1 1>4  HERMAN. 

Little  Manituu,  so-called,  was  a  scion  of  a  wild  herd 
born  of  the  further  prairie;  and  her  home-sickness 
Deemed  to  have  got  into  her  head.  She  ran  np  the 
2)recipices  like  a  squirrel  or  a  fly,  leaped  the  black  cen- 
tre-cleaving cliasms  like  a  goat,  or  braced  her  little 
fetlock-fringed  hoofs  and  slid  down  the  steeps  like  a 
lama,  with  a  shower  of  gravel  and  pebbles  of  flint, 
agate,  and  jasper,  at  her  heels.  Her  spirits  soon  in- 
fected him  ;  for  a  generous  horse  and  rider  have  much 
sympathy  between  them.  He  cheered  her  on  with 
hand  and  voice,  and,  with  eyes  dancing  and  his  short 
round  curls  pnlled  straight  into  a  jetty  halo  round  his 
face  by  the  shrewish  fingers  of  the  mountain  breezes 
whose  haunts  he  was  invading,  looked  laughingly  back 
over  his  shoulder  at  his  cowardly  Canadian,  as,  explo- 
ding with  patois  and  indignation,  he  toiled  after  him. 

Yet  there  was  not  a  shade  of  brutal  recklessness  in 
his  daring.  His  high-mettled  little  steed  was  sure- 
footed and  sagacious,  and  knew  her  ground  better  than 
he  ;  and  his  instinct  taught  him  that  he  promoted  his 
own  safety,  as  well  as  his  and  her  pleasure,  best,  by 
letting  her  take  her  own  way  and  pace,  neither  fretted 
nor  disconcerted  by  any  interference  on  his  part.  She 
appeared,  indeed,  to  think  *  it  a  question  not  worth 
considering  for  a  moment,  whether  she  kept  him  on  her 
back  or  not ;  but  he  could  trust  to  himself  for  that ;  and, 
with  all  her  pranks,  he  observed  that  she  took  care  to  take 
the  very  best  care  of  herself  If  he  did  not  fear  death, 
neither  did  he  fear  life  now  ;  and  when  the  wary  pony, 
laying  back  her  ears  disapprovingly,  halted  to  consider 
her  ways,  and  then,  with  her  four  feet  walking  in 
Indian-file  one  before  the  other,  went  mincing  and 
picking  her  way  round  the  narrow  rim  of  a  precipice 
one  or  two  hundred  feet  deep,  at  the  base  of  another 


TUE     LAXD    <JF    e  l  XSET.  165 

one  or  two  hundred  feet  bigh,  and  gave  him  time  to 
breathe  and  think,  it  was  with  a  flush  of  hot  shame 
that  he  remembered  a  hasty  half  hope,  that  had  stirred 
within  him  in  the  black  night  on  the  Alleghanies,  once 
when  the  coach  had  jolted  in  the  rougli  road  more  than 
usual,  that  it  might  overturn  with  him,  and  dash  his 
troubles  out  in  the  valley  beneath.  How  readily  do 
such  wishes  arise  in  the  thwarted  breast  of  eager,  fiery, 
passionate  Youth  !  How  mercifully  are  they  often  de- 
nied !  He  was  glad  already,  that  his  had  not  been 
granted.  A  craven's  mood,  he  felt,  was  no  mood  to 
die  in. 

'^Childish!"  he  said  to  himself;  "what  if  the 
boarding-school  is  somewhat  dreary,  uncongenial,  and 
uncomfortable,  and  its  discipline  severe  and  painful  ? 
What  pupil  in  his  senses  would,  at  his  entrance,  ask 
leave  to  hurry  from  it,  an  untutored,  unformed,  grace- 
less clown,  to  court  ?  JS'o  man  ever  yet  went  up  to  the 
other  world  too  well-prepared  to  figure  in  it  by  the 
lessons  of  a  single  day.  Besides,  I  have  never  yet 
passed  a  single  day,  however  dreary,  that  I  can  recol- 
lect, which  did  not  bring  its  special  blessing,  if  I  looked 
for  it.  Let  me  press  forward  with  trust  and  good  hope, 
then,  through  the  long  line  of  comforts  and  joys,  which 
the  days  that  yet  stand  between  me  and  the  grave  must 
have  in  store  for  me.  What  if  they  be  many  ?  So, 
then,  will  their  blessings  be." 

An  alternation  of  light  and  darkness  seems  to  be 
appointed  to  the  soul  on  earth,  as  well  as  to  the  body. 
Man  can  hardly  escape  it,  except  by  perversely  shut- 
ting out  the  light  when  it  rises  upon  him,  and  immu- 
ring himself  in  perpetual  gloom.  This  was  not  Her- 
man's way.  He  endured  the  darkness,  but  always 
Bought  the  light,  and  now  heartily  welcomed  the  re 


166  HERMAN. 

• 

turning  cheerfulness,  that  enabled  him  to  enter  with 
genuine  interest  into  the  living  epic  opening  before 
him. 

He  drew  rein  at  a  point  in  the  pass,  which  over- 
looked the  plain  on  the  further  side.  Two  huge  crags 
rose  just  before  him  on  each  hand,  their  peaks  spanned 
by  a  bridge  of  leaden  clouds  with  rims  of  silver,  making 
a  frame  through  which  he  saw  the  intense  blue  of  the 
sky,  and  the  rifts  below  and  beyond  him  pouring  out 
their  Indians  into  the  swarming  valley.  He  studied  the 
wild  procession  and  cavalcade,  as  it  defiled  before  him, 
and  thought  how  unreal  it  all  seemed  ! — how  like  to 
some  phantasmagorial  panorama  conjured  up  by  the 
demons  of  the  mountains,  to  mock  the  traveller  and 
work  his  woe,  by  forcing  him  to  tell  his  mates  on  his 
return  incredible  and  apparently  mendacious  or  maniac 
tales ! — or  how  like  the  fantastic  pageantry  of  those 
very  demons  themselves  !  Who  would  have  believed 
any  accidental  wayfarer,  who  alone,  and  the  first  of  all 
his  dim-faced  brethren,  should  have  lost  himself  on  the 
unbounded  frairie^  strayed  away  to  westward,  and 
come  back  to  cities  and  the  haunts  of  common  men, 
with  a  report  of  sights  like  these  ? 

The  old  brown  warriors,  looking  as  if  sprung  from 
the  old  brown  desert,  paced  together,  as  if  "  in  solemn 
conference  on  peace  and  war,  and  the  affairs  of  state." 
The  younger,  with  their  robes  of  skin  merely  belted 
about  their  waists  and  their  magnificent  busts  and 
limbs  exposed  more  than  those  of  circus-riders,  lashing 
their  fine  horses,  went  dashing  and  careering  to  and 
fro  with  wanton  and  superfluous  energy.  The  pretty 
young  squaws  on  pretty  ponies,  all  tinsel,  fringe,  and 
feathers,  paced  daintily  along,  quite  unencumbered 
except  with  finery.     The  old  and  ugly  ran,  half-clad. 


THE     LA^'D    OF    SUNSET.  •  167 

on  foot,  with  the  luggage,  screaming  discordantly, 
hunting  the  laden  dogs  about,  and  scolding  so  loud 
that  their  voices  sometimes  reached  him,  or  sometimes 
made  an  insignificant  part  of  a  load  trailed  in  a  travail  * 
at  the  heels  of  some  other  unhappy  beast  of  burden. 
Herman  saw  one  equipage,  composed  of,  first,  a  mule, 
then  a  travail^  a  squaw  in  that,  a  child  on  her  shoul- 
ders, and  in  the  child's  arms  a  puppy. 

They  halted,  dismounted,  and  unloaded.  The 
leathery  lodges  sprang  up,  like  a  circle  of  mushrooms. 
Herman  moved  on,  and  went  down  towards  them. 
The  men  seated  themselves  luxuriously,  each  under  his 
own  roof-tree, — that  is  to  say,  lodge-poles, — with  an 
air  of  expectation.  Some  of  the  engaging  females 
pounced,  like  Fates,  upon  some  of  the  fawning  dogs, 
dragged  them  away  from  their  sports  or  fights,  as  the 
case  might  be,  pounded  their  skulls  and  brains  together 
with  stone  mallets,  skinned  them,  and  cut  them  up. 
Others  made  fires,  and  toasted  them  over  the  coals  for 
a  tough  Homeric  banquet. 

Bernard  proceeded  to  pitch  Herman's  tent;  and 
Mr.  Grubbe,  who  was  experienced  and,  with  all  his 
love  of  "  the  Indian,"  had  his  decided  prejudices  in 
favor  of  Meneaska  housekeeping,  took  up  his  quarters, 
and  found  much  comfort,  therein.  Herman,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  a  great  fancy  to  experience  a  little  of 
the  hospitality  of  his  red  neighbours,  whom  he,  and 
the  caravan  with  whom  he  had  hitherto  traversed  the 
prairies,  had  joined  only  the  day  before.     Mr.  Grubbe 

*  ' '  The  long  poles  used  in  erecting  the  lodges  are  carried  by  the 
horses,  being  fastened  by  the  heavier  end,  two  or  three  on  each  side, 
to  a  rude  sort  of  pack-saddle,  while  the  other  end  drags  on  the 
ground.  About  a  foot  beliind  the  horse,  a  kind  of  large  basket  or 
pannier  is  suspended  between  thje  jioles,  and  firmly  lashed  in  ilci 
place." — Paekman's  ''Oregon  Trail.'^  This  basket  is,  I  believe,  called  a 
travail. 


1G8  •  HERMAN. 

told  him,  that  he  needed  only  to  pass  under  the  buf- 
falo's-hide  curtain  of  one  of  the  lodges,  and  say  that  he 
had  come  to  stay  in  it,  and  he  might  be  sure  of  a  lodg- 
ing, and  food  and  welcome ;  but  that,  his  cockney  pre- 
judices prevented  his  doing.  He  walked,  however,  in 
the  twilight,  among  the  lodges,  dark  without  and  bright 
within  ;  he  saw  the  lurid  light  of  the  fires  reflected 
from  the  leather  hangings  and  leathery  faces ;  he  heard 
the  uncouth,  unintelligible  speech,  and  the  bursts  of 
scarcely  less  articulate  laughter  which  followed  it ;  and 
just  as,  to  his  regret,  he  was  forced  by  a  traveller's  ap- 
petite to  turn  towards  his  own  dwelling,  he'was  invited 
in  by  the  signs  of  Weahwashtay,  (the  Good  Woman,)  to 
partake,  with  her  husband  and  children,  of  a  supper  of 
boiled  mongrel,  which  he  did  very  gratefully.  Then, 
going  to  his  tent,  he  wrapped  himself  in  his  buffalo- 
robes  and,  with  the  good  rifle  Kill- wolf  for  a  bedfellow, 
fell  sound  asleep,  lulled  by  the  rhythmical  if  not  melo- 
dious breathing  of  the  worthy  Grubbe,  who  was  much 
addicted  to  sleeping  aloud.  He  was  disturbed  only 
pleasantly  by  the  howls  of  the  canine  w^atchmen  of 
the  camp,  who,  by  proclaiming  in  chorus  the  hours  of 
twelve  and  three,  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  remem- 
ber and  recognize  the  singularity  of  his  situation,  as 
his  eyes,  half  unclosing,  looked  to  the  unsteady  flicker- 
ing light  of  the  pine-knot,  stuck  in  the  ground  in  the 
middle  of  the  tent  and  burnt  so  low  at  his  second 
arousing,  as  scarcely  to  show  the  dark  figure  of  Bernard 
asleep  across  the  door.  The  caravan  had,  after  a  very 
brief  halt  for  supper,  pushed  on  towards  the  Pacific. 
He  was,  but  for  his  two  tent-mates,  now  at  last  alone 
among  the  Indians. 

It  was  broad  day  before  he  was  broad  awake,  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  stir,  bustle,  and  noise  within  and  with- 


THE    LAJS'D    OF   SU^v'SET.  16  i> 

out  the  tent.  Springing  through  the  door  he  beheld, 
in  the  clear,  sunny  morning  air,  the  whole  camp  in 
commotion.  Horsemen  and  dogs,  in  full  cry,  were 
hunting  each  other  between  and  even  through  the 
lodges,  yelling,  kicking,  biting,  and  fighting  one 
another  promiscuously;  and  women,  running,  scolding, 
and  hiding  their  favorite  children  and  puppies,  and 
every  dangerous  weapon  which  they  could  lay  hands 
upon ;  while  on  one  side,  a  little  aloof  from  the  fray, 
Mr.  Grubbe,  with  the  hangings  of  the  tent  decorously 
held  together  close  about  his  neck,  and  his  popped-out 
head  embellished  with  a  tasselled  night-cap  of  conical 
form,  was  proclaiming  "  peace  principles"  in  a  most 
stentorian  and  indignant  voice ;  and  on  the  other,  nine 
old  women  stood  in  a  row  before  a  blasted  fir,  and 
sang,  to  allay  the  rage  of  the  combatants,  a  nxedicine- 
8ong^  which  to  Herman's  uniustructed  ear  seemed  rather 
more  adapted  to  excite  it.  Perhaps,  however,  the  pro- 
ceeding was  founded  on  the  homoeopathic  theory, — 
that  which  would  have  a  tendency  to  excite  a  disorder 
in  a  sound  subject  being  expected  to  allay  it  in  any 
afready  afi'ected  by  it.  If  so,  homoeopathy,  on  this  one 
occasion  at  least,  came  ofi*  victorious.  The  white-faced 
halcyon  grew  black-faced  in  vain,  and  ceased  from  his 
exhortation  in  dudgeon;  the  red-faced  ones  carried 
the  day. 

As  soon  as  Herman  was  dressed,  he  went  out  again 
to  inquire  into  the  cause  of  the  tumult.  He  discovered, 
that  the  War-Eagle  had  informed  the  Eattle-Snake, 
that  he  could  kill  more  buffaloes  in  one  sunshine  than 
the  latter  could  in  a  moon.  Thereupon  the  crested 
Eattle-Snake,  as  in  honor  bound,  had  snapped  his  fin- 
gers in  the  plumy  War-Eagle's  face  Whereupon  the 
War-Eagle,  with  his  finger  and  thimib,  oi>|)robriousiy 
8 


170  HERMAN. 

tweaked  the  Rattle-Snake's  nose.  And  upon  that,  all 
the  valiant  retainers  of  both  had  rnshed  to  blows,  in  a 
manner  greatly  to  the  credit  of  all  parties,  and  would  in- 
evitably have  left  of  one  another  nothing  but  the  scalps 
and  the  squaws,  had  not  the  mighty  and  terrible  medi- 
cine-woman, Ahkayeepixen,  (the  striker  of  many,)  in 
her  official  robe  of  white  mountain  goat-skin,  wrought 
with  wolves'  and  owls'  claws,  and  her  tunic  of  buffalo 
calf's  hide,  begun  a  dreadful  chant,  which,  if  they  had 
waited  for  her  to  finish  it  before  they  stopped  fighting, 
would  inevitably  have  brought  down  upon  them  the 
great  invisible  bird  of  Thunder,  to  stun  them  with  the 
flap  of  his  wings,  and  bum  them  all  up  with  the  flash 
of  his  eye. 

As  Herman  was  extremely  impatient  to  hear  a  little 
of  the  Indian  eloquence,  about  which  he  had  heard  so 
much,  he  had  no  sooner  finished  his  own  breakfast, 
than  he  invited  the  warriors  to  a  bountiful  lunch  of 
reconciliation,  at  which  he  gratified  them  with  molasses 
and  water,  biscuits,  and  a  sheet  of  sw^eetened  chocolate ; 
after  which  they  gratified  him  pretty  neai'ly  as  follows, 
(Mr.  Grubbe  having  gone  to  walk,  and  Bernard  there- 
fore serving  as  interpreter :) 

Swarthy  Chieftain,  seated  on  his  heels. — "Snort, 
splutter,  sputter ;  gibberish,  gibberish  !" 

Bernard.  "He  say  he  make  yon  his — what  you 
call? — gratitudes,  for  coming  so  far  from  de  graves  of 
your  grandpapas'  osses,  to  bring  him  good  cake  and 
sweet  drink." 

Herman.  "  He's  very  welcome.  I  only  wish  there 
was  more." 

Bernard.     "Ah  she  to  he  shee;  nm  cumps." 

Swarthy  Chieftain.  "  Hoogh !  En  achemish.  Hipsh 
%ois.     Ta  rachatoo  cachatoo." 


THE    LAXD    OF  SU2sSET.  171 

Bernard.  "He  say  lie  crara  so  much  already,  be 
ready  to  burst ;  and  so  as  full  is  bis  belly  of  grub,  so  is 
his  mous  of  sanks,  and  bis  beart  wis  affection." 

Herman.  "  Tell  bim  bis  talk  deligbts  me,  as  mucb 
as  my  grub  does  bim." 

Bernard.     "•  Emim  itoo  tumtine." 

Cbieftain.  "  En  amacus.  Emim  sextua ;  en  sextua." 

Bernard,     "You  bis  friend;  be  yours." 

Herman.  "  Mucb  obliged  to  bim, — so  I  am.  Set 
Bome  of  tbe  otbers  to  talking.  Tell  tbat  one  witb  tbe 
queue  of  long  featbers  in  bis  bair  to  speak  up,  and  let 
me  bear  wbat  be  bas  to  say  for  bimself.  Ask  bim 
where  tbe  rain  comes  from." 

Bernard.  "  Sacre  !  I  tell  you  as  mucb  as  dat  me- 
self,  by  gar !  Clouds  is  just  like  your  sponge  dere. 
Dey  gits  full  of  water  fust;  and  den  dey  swells  up  ail 
big,  till  dey  fills  up  all  de  sky,  so  dat  dey  squeezes  each 
anoder.  Den  out  comes  de  water,  of  course,  till  it's 
all  gone;  and  den  zey  is  small  again,  so  dat  you  no  see 
'em." 

Herman.  "Thank  you.  Your  tfieory  pleases  me; 
but  I  wish  to  have  bis  to  compare  witb  it.  You  will 
ask  bim." 

Bernard.  "Em,  bemakis  meobot,  etu  ke  inese 
wykit  ?" 

Chieftain,  confidently.  "  Hemakis  Tota  aha  hobum 
batta,  d-c." 

Bernard.  "He  say  dat  de  sky  is  de  floor  of  ze 
Great  Totem's  lodge.  By  and  by,  de  stars  pricks  it  all 
full  of  trous^ — wbat  you  call  boles. — Den  be  cry.  Tears 
drop  down  t'rough  de  holes.  Dat's  de  rain.  L^igno- 
rant !  Les  Gray-Buffalo  sont  tmijours  si  hetes .'" 

Thus  tbe  conference  continued,  while  tbe  pipe  of 
tobacco  and  sh^ong-sasha,  (the  bark  of  the  red-willow), 


172  HERMAN. 

went  the  rounds,  whiff  by  whiff,  through  the  party,  for 

one  or  two  hours.     In  the  course  of  that  time,  Herman 

was  frequently 

"Too  inly  moved  for  utterance," 

though  not  usually  to  tears.  But  if  he  laughed,  it  was 
only  in  the,  luckily,  capacious  sleeves  of  his  hunting- 
coat.  He  succeeded  in  concealing  his  emotions  with  a 
Spartan  dignity  so  equal  to  that  of  his  guests  that, 
when  the  convivium  broke  up,  he  was  the  moot  popular 
man  in  the  encampment,  and  found  it  expedient  hence- 
forth to  be  out  of  the  way  w^hen  there  was  any  eating  and 
drinking  going  on  within  the  lodges,  or  else  to  keep  his 
appetite  in  readiness  by  taking  no  meals  within  his 
own  tent ;  so  many  were  the  invitations, — which  it 
would  have  been  as  uncivil  to  decline  among  them  as 
an  invitation  to  take  wine  among  us, — poured  in  upon 
him  at  all  hours,  to  partake  of  puppy,  bitter  roots, 
dried-currants  stirred  into  warm  bear's-grease,  pemmi- 
can,  old  dried  fish,  and  gritty  messes  of  choke-cherries 
pounded  up  whole,  stones  and  all.  He  was  glad  to 
throw  off  the  aeceptance  of  this  branch  of  hospitality 
as  much  as  possible  upon  Mr.  Grubbe,  to  whose  sea- 
soned stomach  and  really  excellent  heart  nothing  came 
much  amiss  from  his  savage  pets. 

It  is  saying  a  great  deal  to  say,  that  even  Herman's 
beads,  tobacco,  and  chocolate,  made  him  more  popular 
among  them  than  this  good  old  man ;  for  the  mutual 
attachment  between  the  latter,  amidst  the  general  hos- 
tility between  their  races,  was  really  something  beauti- 
ful to  see.  They  appeared  to  regard  him  with  some- 
what of  superstitious  veneration,  and  somewhat  of 
compassion,  as  a  being  wise  as  to  the  other  world,  and 
foolish  as  to  this  ;  respected  and  protected  him, 
brought  him  botanical  specimens  collected  at  random, 


THE     LAND    OF    Sir^N^SET.  173 

ducked  him  when  in  his  near-sightedness  he  stumbled 
upon  wild  bees'  nests,  found  his  spectacles  when  he 
had  laid  them  down  upon  the  mountains  and  forgotten 
to  take  them  up  again,  listened  with  com'tesy,  if  not 
complete  conviction,  to  his  attempts  to  impart  to  them 
reliorious  instruction,  and  cherished  him  orenerallv. 
On  his  side,  tnal  d-propos  as  he  often  was  with  the  rest 
of  the  Avorld,  towards  them  affection  taught  him  tact, 
and  he  was  not  only  forbearing  and  forgiving,  but  con- 
siderate, usually,  and  strictly  observant  of  their  rules  of 
punctilio  and  etiquette. 

Good  feeling  may  often  practically  more  than  fill 
the  place  of  good  sense.  Can  any  amount  of  abstract 
good  sense  fill  the  place  of  good  feeling  ?  Herman 
thought  that  he  had  never  fully  perceived,  how  truly 
the  sentiments  which  others  entertain  for  us  are  apt  to 
be,  in  the  long  riin^  the  echo  of  those  which  we  enter- 
tain for  them,  until  he  witnessed  the  intercourse  be- 
tween these  often  ferocious  and  so-called  unmanageable 
savages,  and  their  fond  but  in  some  respects  very  fool- 
ish old  friend.  If,  as  a  recent  traveller  has  asserted, 
''  no  man  is  a  philanthropist  on  the  prairie,"  it  is  very 
sad  to  think  how  terrible  an  accumulation  of  ill-will 
and  alienation  must  have  been,  in  all  probability, 
wrought  by  the  hosts  of  ungoverned  white  men  perpet- 
ually trooping,  for  years  past,  over  their  desert  domain, 
in  these  tribes  of  undisciplined  and  passionate  red 
brethren  of  ours,  whose  code  of  honor  seems  to  exact 
the  return  of  wrong  for  wrong  as  rigidly  as  that  of  any 
Christian  duellist.* 


"They  [the  Indians]  have  been  heretofore  left  comparatively  un- 
protected irom.  violence  and  wrong,  inflicted  by  unprincipled  white 
men.  *  *  *  By  such  men,  unworthy  of  the  name,  they  are  oiten 
cruelly  beaten  when  unprotected,  and  not  unfrequently  shot  down  in 
mere  wantonness.    The  bloody  revenge  that  almost  certainly  follows, 


1 7  J:  IIEKMAN. 

Mr.  Griibbe  was  born  with  a  love  of  adventure, 
which  was  much  developed  and  colored  by  the  perusal 
at  odd  minutes  of  an  odd  volume  of  the  curious  and 
kindly  narrative  of  Lewis  and  Clark's  peaceful  early 
exploring  expedition  among  the  Indians  of  the  West. 
It  was  given  him, — the  other  volume  being  lost, — by 
the  wife  of  a  shoemaker  to  whom  he  was  appren- 
ticed, as  a  reward  for  his  kindness  in  drawing  about  a 
sick  child  of  hers,  in  a  little  w^agon,  out  of  working 
hours.  He  dreamed  of  it  by  night,  and  longed  by  day, 
as  he  patiently  drudged  over  his  last  and  lap-board,  for 
the  time  when  he  should  be  free,  and  able  to  go  out 
with  his  knapsack  on  his  shoulder,  and  verify  all  the 
wild  story  for  himself.  That  time  was  long  in  coming. 
His  father  died ;  his  brother  was  a  sot ;  his  sisters  w^ere 
many  ;  his  mother  was  poor.  It  came  at  last,  how- 
ever. He  earned  and  saved  enough  to  portion  and 
provide  for  them  all,  and  set  forth  with  an  easy  con- 
science and  thankful  heart,  to  refresh  himself  w^ith  the 
contemplation  in  others  of  the  free,  fresh  life,  the  spir- 
its and  spontaneousness,  which  monotonous,  hard,  and 
sedentary  toil,  hope  deferred,  and  advancing  age,  had 
forever  driven  out  of  him.  Of  this  refreshment 
he  was  never  weary,  nor  of  those  who  afforded  it 
to  him. 


becomes  the  general  theme,  unaccompanied  by  the  circumstances  of 
cruel  provocation  which  gave  it  birth.  A  border  w-arfare  springs  up 
between  the  pioneer  settlers,  (who  are  really  trespassers  on  their 
lands, ''  and  the  tribes;  and  the  strong  arm  of  the  Government  being 
invoked  for  their  protection,  wars  take  place,  which  are  carried  on 
at  much  expense,  and  at  the  cost  of  many  valuable  lives,  retarding 
the  progress  of  our  people,  by  rendering  the  condition  of  the  settler 
insecure,  and  closing,  perhaps,  with  the  annihilation  of  almost  entire 
tribes.  This  process  of  the  destruction  of  a  people  of  whom  Provi- 
dence has  given  us  .the  guardianship,  originating  in  sucli  causes,  is 
unworthy  of  the  civilization  of  the  age  in  which  we  live,  and  revolt- 
ing to  every  sentiment  of  humanity." 

[Report  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior  for  the  year  1856. 


THE     L-^SI)    OF    6U>'SET.  175 

Herman,  too,  felt  as  if  he  could  never  have  too 
much  of  it.  It  was  an  anodyne,  if  not  an  antidote,  to 
the  pain  still  lurking  at  his  heart ;  and  young  yet,  un- 
crushed,  and  uncrvshalle^  he  threw  himself  into  it 
heart  and  soul,  sitting  by  night  among  the  chiefs  wliile 
the  pipe,  and  the  story  which  he  soon  began  to  learn 
rapidly  to  understand,  went  round  the  fire,  and,  by 
day,  sketching  their  picturesque,  symmetrical,  faultless 
forms,  decked  in  their  best  for  the  purpose  in  all  their 
barbaric  pomp  of  skins,  fringes,  beads,  and  plumes,  or 
as  they  sat  proudly,  half-stripped  for  the  course,  upon 
their  pawing  horses,  or  climbing  by  himself  to  catch 
the  likenesses  of  the  wild  mountains  in  every  variety 
of  their  frowning,  sullen,  or  smiling  expression,  or, 
above  all,  after  they  recrossed  the  mountains,  as  they 
did  in  a  day  or  two,  rushing  on  his  own  foaming  little 
steed,  like  a  spirit  of  the  storm,  through  the  break-neck 
buffalo-hunts,  with  a  dim  whisking  of  tails  and  up-and- 
down  tilting  of  shaggy  haunches  before  him,  and  clouds 
of  dust  and  a  thunder  of  hoofs  all  around. 

It  was  not  the  most  prudent  pastime  in  the  world ; 
for  the  plains  were  riddled  everywhere  with  the  bur- 
rows of  the  prairie-dogs  and  their  tenants,  the  rattle- 
snakes. Let  Little  Manitou  once  put  her  little  hoof 
into  one  of  these  pit-falls,  and  down  she  most  go  with 
a  broken  leg,  and  Mr.  Herman  Arden  with  a  broken 
neck,  or  if  with  any  slighter  injury,  to  receive  his 
quietus  at  the  hands  {i.  e.^  hoofs  and  horns)  of  some  at- 
tentive and  considerate  old  buffalo.  But  boys  will  be 
boys  ;  (oh,  that  they  would  never  be  anything  worse  I) 
and  there  are  two  merciful  provisions  of  fate  with  re- 
gard to  them  :  one,  that  their  mothers  and  sisters  can't 
see  all  they  do  ;  and  another,  that  a  man  laboring  un- 
der the  intoxication  of  youth  is  hke  a  man  intoxicated 


176  HERMAN. 

with  liquor, — it  often  takes  an  uncommon  deal  to  kill 
him.  As  for  Little  Maniton  herself,  she  liked  the  fun 
so  well, — so  much  better  than  life, — judging  from  the 
indiscreet  and  altogether  headstrong  and  headlong 
manner  in  which  she  conducted  herself,  that  Herman 
had  no  scruples  about  the  humanity  of  it  on  her  ac- 
count. His  owai  danger,  boy-like,  he  hardly  happened 
to  recognize.  He  was  sorry  for  the  buffaloes  ;  but  it 
was  a  consolation  to  him,  and  let  us  hope  to  them,  to 
reflect  that  he  never  shot  any  of  them,  except  when  his 
larder  was  positively  in  want  of  beef,  and  that,  as  they 
were  doomed  to  be  hunted  at  any  rate,  it  could  make 
very  little  difference  to  them  whether  tw^enty-nine 
horsemen  only  were  at  their  heels,  or  thirty.  » 

Next  best  to  hunting  them,  he  loved  to  creep  on  his 
hands  and  knees  among  them,  when  they  fed  or  lay 
upon  the  grass  with  their  huge,  grim  strength  mild  and 
at  rest,  to  lie  and  muse,  and  try  to  forget,  in  a  fantastic 
sympathy  with  them,  that  he  had  ever  known,  any 
more  than  they,  a  regret  for  the  past  or  an  anxiety  for 
the  future ;  till,  all  at  once,  some  unwdeldy  monster  of 
them  would  roll  over,  toss  his  hoofs  in  the  air,  rub  and 
scrape  his  leathery  back  on  the  sharp  stones,  in  a  rap- 
ture of  uncouth  comfort,  and  then,  scrambling  up  upon 
his  fore-legs  and  squatting  on  his  haunches  like  a  dog, 
with  his  mane  full  of  dust  over  his  browsy  forehead, 
would  fix  on  his  visiter  a  look  of  grave,  grotesque,  com- 
placent inquiry,  like  'an  old  fop  powdering  himself, 
turning  round,  and  saying,"  What  do  you  think  of  me 
now  ?" 

In  fact,  revelling,  as  Herman  did,  like  a  genuine 
lover  of  nature,  in  the  contemplation  of  the  harmless, 
amusing  animal  life, — so  in  keeping  with  the  whole 
scene, — about  him,  the  wanton  destruction  of  it  was  a 


THE    LAND    OF    SUX3ET.  177 

grievance  to  him.  It  was  not  merely  that  the  Indian 
patriarchs  killed  rather  more  beasts  and  birds  than 
they  wanted  for  food,  dress,  and  shelter  ;  nor  that  their 
naughty  little  boys  were,  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
straying  with  their  miniature  bows  and  spears  over  the 
plains,  and  piercing,  pricking,  cutting,  and  crushing 
every  hapless  little  creature  they  could  find  harmless 
enough  to  be  tortured  with  impunity,  while  their  pa- 
rents admired  their  exploits  as  a  cat  does  those  of  her 
kitten,  mumbling,  scratching,  growling,  and  nosing  over 
its  first  mouse.  Even  the — in  all  other  respects — 
best-behaved  of  the  white  men,  with  whom  from  time 
to  time  he  fell  in  on  the  prairies,  seemed  inspired,  in 
the  view  of  the  sublimity  and  beauty  around  them, 
only  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  veteran  butcher,  who 
is  reported  to  have  held  the  following  colloquy  with  a 
certain  appreciative  matron  : 

"  Miss  So-and-so,  what  a  splendid  night  'twas, 
night  afore  last !     D'ye  mind  ?" 

"  I  remember,  General  Brisket,  it  was  a  remarkably 
beautiful  night." 

"  Oh,  'twas  real  heavenly.  I  see  the  moon  shine 
into  the  winder  o'  one  side  an  out  o'  the  looking-glass 
o'  tother ;  an  I  laid  an  laid,  and  tumbled  an  tossed;  an 
at  last  says  I,  '  Miss  Brisket,'  says  I,  '  I  can't  stand 
this  here  no  longer  !'  says  I,  '  I  shall  have  to  git  right 
up,  an  go  to  slarterin.'  " 

But  the  chief  ofiender  in  this  slaughter  of  the  inno- 
cents was  Herman's  self-constituted  particular  friend 
and  squire,  Whattaraskle,  the  Good-AYoman's  very  bad 
boy.  He  was  an  incorrigible — or,  at  any  rate,  uncor- 
rected— Little  varlet  of  fifteen,  handsome,  slender,  light, 
and  fleet  as  the  celebrated  Mercury,  blown  up  by  a 
Zephyr.  He  was  to  the  full  as  light-fingered  and  mis- 
8^ 


178  HERMAN 

chievous  as  any  Mercury  whatsoever  could  be,  and  like- 
wise was  blown-up,  so  to  speak,  by  everybody  except- 
ing his  mamma,  whose  credit  alone  saved  him  from 
well-merited  chastisement  at  every  turn. 

Weahwashtay  regarded  him  as  "great  medicine," 
which  he  certainly  was,  if  being  a  dose  could  make 
him  so,  and  would  neither  punish  him  herself  nor  let 
any  one  else ;  for,  on  one  occasion,  when  he,  an  imp 
of  five  or  six  years  old,  w^as  alone  with  her  on  the 
prairie,  they  were  pursued  by  the  Demon  of  Fire,  who 
probably  wanted  to  claim  his  own.  Whattaraskle,  at 
the  same  time,  was  pursuing  a  butterfly,  to  the  right 
and  left,  and  forward  and  backward.  Every  time  his 
anxious  parent  caught  him  to  carry  him  off,  he  kicked 
and  thumped  her,  and  steadily  retarded  her  progress 
by  this  ingenious  means  till  she  set  him  down  again, 
w^hich  she  was  at  last  compelled  to  do  once  for  all,  not 
merely  by  physical  anguish,  but  by  the  hot  approach 
and  breath  of  the  rushing  flames,  and  the  recollection 
of  the  poor  little  yearling  papoose,  who  must  already 
be  wriggling  and  crying  for  her  in  its  furry  cradle  at 
liorjje.  With  the  tenderness  of  a  lioness,  and  the  pres- 
ence of  mind  of  a  princess,  she  therefore  knocked  her 
offspring  down,  set  her  well-knit  knee  on  his  shoulders, 
tied  his  feet  with  one  of  her  flying  locks,  wliich  she 
twitched  out  by  the  roots  for  the  purpose,  threw  on  the 
ground  her  mantle  of  buffalo-skin,  rolled  him  over  and 
over  in  it,  with  the  brown  outside  outwards,  till  he 
looked  like  a  charledonier^  (I  spell  it  by  ear,)  darted 
off  unencumbered,  with  the  foot  of  an  antelope  yet 
none  too  fleetly,  for  her  life,  and  left  him  to  take  his 
chance.  When  the  fire  had  burned  itself  to  death,  the 
young  chief  was  found,  sound  asleep  and  quite  un- 
harmed, in  the  singed  hide  on  the  only  green  spot  in 


THE     LAND    OF    SUNSET.  179 

the   black   prairie.      His   escape  was  looked  upon  as 
miraculous. 

He  took  a  great  fancy,  not  altogether  reciprocated, 
to  Herman,  from  the  time  he  first  tasted  his  chocolate 
and  biscuits,  lay  across  the  opening  of  his  tent,  watched 
all  his  movements,  jumped  up  and  ran  after  liim  when 
he  went  out,  hke  a  dog,  broke  his  pencils,  fiugered 
his  drawings,  tore-  his  papers,  and  made  his  own  counte- 
nance frightful  with  his  paints  like  a  monkey,  secreted 
his  little  valuables  like  a  magpie,  howled  at  liis  ear 
when  he  wanted  to  go  to  sleep  like  a  wolf,  and,  in 
short,  in  spite  of  coaxing  and  cufis  from  Herman 
and  Bernard,  persisted  in  conducting  himself  like  a 
whole  menagerie.  But  the  head  and  front  of  his 
offending  was,  that  he  could  never  see  any  living  thing 
stir, — bird,  beast,  or  reptile, — without  frightening, 
hurting,  or  killing  it.  Herman  might  spend  hours  in 
stealing  unawares  upon  a  herd  of  shy  wild  animals, — 
sheep,  goats,  or  antelopes, — and  just  as  one  or  two  of 
them  had  been  obliging  enough  to  group  themselves 
prettily,  and  his  portfolio  had  been  softly  and  stealthily 
opened,  that  neither  sight  nor  sound  might  give  the 
slightest  intimation  to  the  shy,  coy  darlings,  that  they 
were  sitting  for  their  pictures,  out  would  leap  the  dark 
imp  into  the  midst  of  them,  shouting  and  clapping  his 
hands  ; — or,  worse  still,  out  would  leap  an  arrow 
from  his  unseen  bow,  to  lay  the  fairest  sobbing  and 
bleeding  upon  the  grass,  and  sweep  her  sisters  away, 
as  if  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  This  was  intol- 
erable ;  and  so  Herman  told  Mr.  Grubbe ;  and  so  Mr. 
Grubbe  told  Weahwashtay ;  and  so  Weahwashtay  told 
Whattaraskle  ;  but  not  to  much  purpose.  While  she 
Bcolded  him  at  one  end  of  the  lodge,  he  was  out  at  the 
other;  and   before   he  had  done,  he  very  nearly  got 


180  HERMAN. 

himself  into    a   very   serious   predicament,  and  Her- 
man too. 

The  latter,  determined  to  make  a  very  serions  im- 
pression upon  Whattaraskle's  mind,  and,  if  possible,  to 
enjoy  one  afternoon's  ramble  and  sketcliing  in  peace, 
had,  with  the  mournful  concurrence  of  Weahwashtay 
and  amidst  a  chorus  of  approving  laughter  from  the 
other  nobles,  forcibly  ejected  that  offending  youth  from 
his  tent,  while  he  held  a  high  coffee-feast  there  one 
evening.  On  the  following  day,  he  promised  the  boy 
a  whole  string  of  large  carrot-colored  beads,  of  inex- 
pressible beauty  and  inestimable  value,  if  he  would 
bring  him  the  flower  of  a  certain  plant,  which  Herman 
had  his  reasons  for  supposing  to  be  out  of  blossom. 
Failing  to  find  it  earlier,  he  was  to  continue  his  solitary 
search  till  sunset,  when,  if  he  did  so,  the  beads  were  to 
be  his  at  all  events.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  let  Her- 
man hear  or  see  anything  of  him,  before  that  time,  with- 
out his  flower,  he  was  to  forfeit  his  reward.  These 
conditions  agreed  upon,  Herman  waited  only  to  see 
the  stripling  set  off  with  zeal  and  speed  up  the  mount- 
ains, and  to  deposit  the  beads  in  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Grubbe,  to  be  given,  if  earned,  in  his  absence,  before 
he  set  off  himself  in  another  direction,  with  speed 
scarcely  less  and  zeal  even  greater.  Climbing  diag- 
onally and  then  going  horizontally,  he  found  a  satis- 
factory spot  half-way  up  his  mountain,  witli  a  dizzy 
precipice  below,  and  a  snow-roofed  summit  above  re- 
minding him  pathetically  of  wedding-cake,  and  just 
above  that,  one  glassy  icy  peak,  looking  loftily  down 
over  it  through  an  up-and-down  floored  gorge,  tapes- 
tried, where  it  opened  near  him,  with  green  quivering 
pine-boughs.  The  day,  the  lights,  the  shadows,  the 
clouds  overhead,  the  mists  underneath,  the  rilence,  the 


THE     LAND    OF    SUNSET.  181 

solitude, — the  scene,  was,  in  short,  perfect.  He  placed 
his  portfolio  on  a  raised  tablet  of  black  rock,  that 
looked  like  the  unintelligible  tombstone  of  dead  ages, 
and  himself  on  another,  and  sketched,  and  gazed,  and 
dreamed,  he  knew  not  how  long. 

All  at  once,  there  was  a  rushing  and  crashing  in  the. 
gorge.  A  slight  dark  form  was  darting  towards  him 
with  every  sinew  strained.  It  was  that  of  the  ubiqui- 
tous Whattaraskle ;  and  behind  it  for  an  instant  ap- 
peared a  rampant,  shaggy,  fur-clad  figure  surmounted 
by,  as  it  seemed  to  Heiman's  remarkably  keen  sight,  a 
positively  demoniac  face.  It  stooped  out  of  view,  ap- 
peared again  much  nearer,  stood  up  once  more  on  its 
hind-legs  full  seven  or  eight  feet  high,  as  if  to  take  an 
observation,  and  again  came  scrambling  and  tumbling 
on,  on  all-fours.  It  was  the  gigantic  "Caleb,"  as  some 
of  his  familiar  acquaintance  call  the  grizzly  bear.  The 
little  fugitive,  no  doubt,  must  needs  have  been  beard- 
ing him  in  his  headquarters.  The  precipice  was  below. 
He  could  not  run  much  further  without  running  from 
the  jaws  of  one  death  into  those  of  another.  His 
strength  was  almost  spent.  His  speed  was  slackening  ; 
his  adversary's  increasing.  He  was  in  a  fair  way  to  get  im- 
mediately just  what  he  deserved ;  but  still  it  was  not 
pleasant  to  see  his  poor  mouth  foaming,  and  his  tongue 
and  eyes  starting  from  his  sharpened  face,  after  that 
fashion  ;  and  thus  it  happened  that,  the  next  time  the 
justly  incensed  Caleb  tilted  himself  back  on  his  hind- 
legs,  with  his  bristly  muzzle  all  snarls  and  white  teeth, 
and  eyes  full  of  mischief,  he  saw  close  before  him  not  a 
young  Indian's  back,  but  the  front  of  a  young  white 
man,  with  his  feet  firmly  planted  in  a  portfolio,  two 
teeth  as  white  as  Caleb's  own  compressing  his  bristly 
under-lip,  eyes  that  sparkled  as  if  the  bad  example  of 


182  HERMAN. 

Caleb's  had  been  too  much  for  them  and  they  meant 
mischief,  too,  and,  aimed  precisely  at  Caleb's  red, 
steaming,  open  mouth,  a  rifle  that  instantly  went  off' 
with  a  crack,  a  whiz,  and  a  bullet,  which  must  have 
affected  Caleb's  brain  very  seriously,  had  he  not  just  at 
the  right  moment  shaken  his  head  disapprovingly  at  it, 
as  if  he  had  thoroughly  studied  the  whole  subject  of 
duelling,  and  really  could  not  consent  to  give  it  his 
countenance.  Pawing  the  smoke  out  of  his  red  eyes, 
he  came  on  again  ;  and  the  rifle  was  unloaded,  the 
knife  too  short,  the  solitude  around,  the  precipice  be- 
low, and  death,  in  the  shape  of  Caleb,  staring  Herman 
in  the  face ;  when,  "  on  the  very  verge  of  fate,"  his 
good  genius  reminding  him  of  his  ruffianly  accomplish- 
ments, he  threw  himself  into  a  scientific  attitude, 
clutched  his  rifle  with  both  hands,  and  encompassed 
himself  with  a  whirring  whirl  of  passes,  in  hopes  of 
scaring  the  monster  away.  Caleb  did  not  appear  at  all 
dismayed,  but,  on  the  contrary,  rather  gratified,  and 
approached  to  embrace  him,  when,  to  his  chagrin  and 
astonishment,  he  received  a  broken  paw.  He  stopped 
to  mouth,  fondle,  and  condole  with  it,  just  long  enough 
for  Herman  to  dart  twenty  paces  backwards,  and  up 
into  a  stunted  half-naked  fir-tree  rooted  in  the  thin, 
slanting  soil,  six  feet  or  thereabouts  above  the  brink  of 
the  precipice.  Whattaraskle  was  already  perched  in 
it,  and  unconscious  of  anything  but  terror,  tried  to 
push  Herman  off.  But  a  smart  rap  on  the  knuckles, 
from  the  rifle  which  the  latter  still  held  fast,  warned 
him  that  he  might  trespass  too  far  upon  his  forbear- 
ance. Driving  him  higher  into  the  tree  on  the  safe 
side,  and  taking  up  his  own  position  on  the  lower 
branch,  which  ran  off  horizontally  at  the  height  of 
about  eighteen  feet,  Herman  began  in  all  haste  to  re- 


THE    LAND    OF    SUNSET. 


183 


load  ;  but  before  he  could  accomplish  this,  the  bear  was 
climbing  the  trunk  as  fast  as  his  three  legs  could  carry 
him.  Herman  laid  his  body  loosely  along  the  limb  of 
the  tree,  twining  three  of  his  own  limbs  around  it,  out 
of  harm's  way,  drew  his  hunting-knife,  and,  as  soon  as 
Caleb  came  within  his  reach  at  arm's  length,  darted 
head-downwards  at  him,  struck  him  in  one  eye,  and, 
quick  as  a  snake,  drew  himself  up  again.  The  bear 
stopped  climbing,  but  clung.  With  his  weight,  the 
roots  cracked;  the  tree  shuddered.  He  must  fall,  or 
all  go  down,  down,  down,  together.  Repeating  the 
manoeuvre,  as  instantaneously  as  before,  Herman 
stabbed  him  in  the  other  eye.  He  dropped,  rolling, 
roaring,  and  struggling,  on  the  pebbly  gravel  at  the 
root  of  the  tree,  and  they  after,  while  with  the  three- 
fold jerk  the  fir  reeled,  swung,  toppled  slowly  over,  and 
hung  roots  uppermost  and  branches  out  of  sight. 

Herman  reloaded  six  times,  and  shot  no  less  than 
six  bullets  through  poor  Caleb's  brain  and  lungs  before 
his  troubles  were  over ;  and  then,  that  which  is  a  mat- 
ter of  conjecture  to  most  of  us,  namely,  how  death 
would  seem  to  us  if  we  knew  that  we  were,  in  all 
probability,  just  about  to  die,  could  never  be  again  a 
matter  of  conjecture  to  Herman.     He  knew. 

How  had  it  seemed  ?  Like  "  only  an  incident  in 
life."  But  did  he  not  kneel  do^vn  and  thank  his 
Maker  for  his  preservation  ?  Undoubtedly  ;  not, 
though,  that  he  had  any  particular  preference  for  living 
in  this  world  in  those  days,  but  because  he  saw  that  it 
was  God's  will  that  he  should  live,  and  was  therefore 
content  and  glad  to  do  it ;  and  because,  when  he  had 
time  to  think,  he  did  not  love  to  think  how,  if  his  ad- 
venture had  had  a  difierent  ending,  Clara  would  have 
cried  in  his  far-away  home,  while  the  mountain  eagles 


184  HERMAN. 

were  picking  his  bones  in  these  their  fastnesses.  But 
first  of  all, — must  I  tell  the  whole  story  ?  He  was  a 
whimsical  fellow,  and,  as  I  have  said,  not  perfect. — 
Before  he  did  anything  else,  he  rolled  on  his  back, 
screaming  with  fun  at  the  idea  of  having  come  oif  vic- 
torious at  double-stick  with  a  bear.  He  cut  out  and 
pocketed  for  trophies  his  victim's  twenty  claws,  which 
were  all  of  them  between  four  and  live  inches  in 
length.  Then,  with  Wliattaraskle's  assistance,  he 
rolled  and  shoved  him  over  the  broken  edge  of  the 
plumb  descent,  thinking  that  a  little  pounding  might 
make  him  tenderer,  and  that  at  any  rate  it  would  be 
convenient  to  let  him  travel  homewards  of  his  own 
motion  as  far  as  he  could ;  for  he  must  have  weighed 
between  two  and  three  hundred  pounds.  To  the  foot 
of  the  precipice,  Herman,  on  his  return  to  the  camp, 
sent  up  a  detachment  of  his  most  trust-worthy  friends, 
under  Whattaraskle's  guidance,  to  get  the  dear  re- 
mains. He  was,  though  quite  unhurt,  for  once  in  his 
life  completely  tired  out,  and  sore  and  strained  in 
every  muscle  from  his  fight,  and  made  no  attempt  to 
accompany  them.  They  satisfied  themselves  with  de- 
vouring raw,  on  the  spot,  only  a  portion  of  the  more 
tempting  entrails  and  marrow,  and  faithfully  brought 
him  home  flesh  enough  to  enable  him  to  entertain  them 
meetly  at  solemn  festivals  on  several  succeeding  days. 
Whattaraskle,  having  regained  his  wits,  was  not 
ungrateful.  He  did  not  cease  to  be  mischievous  ;  for 
then  he  must  have  ceased  to  be  ; — all  the  mischief  sub- 
tracted, he  must  have  become  a  mere  cipher. — But  the 
next  day,  when  his  deliverer,  on  a  ramble  to  see  again  the 
scene  of  his  adventure,  unwittingly  sprang  into  the  baked 
clay  bdd  of  one  of  the  innocent-lookitig,  dry-on-the-top, 
bottomless-fluid-underneath  quicksands,  or  rather  quick- 


THE     LAND    (^F    aUNSET.  185 

puddles,  of  the  Bocky  Mountains,  and  was  sucked  down 
helplessly  up  to  his  knees,  and  up  to  his  hips,  and  up 
to  his  chin,  and  up  to  his  nose,  Whattaraskle,  behold- 
ing, not  only  with  infinite  presence  of  mind  emitted 
yells  such  as  only  an  Indian  can  utter,  but  whisked  up 
an  oak  fast  by,  scrambled  along  an  over-hanging 
branch,  hung  from  it  at  full  length  by  his  hands,  and 
gave  Herman  both  his  feet  to  hold  on  by  till  help 
came,  and  did  not  once  flinch  nor  complain,  though  it 
was  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour  in  coming,  and,  in  the 
course  of  that  time,  his  arms  were  pulled  nearly  out  of 
their  sockets ;  had  it  not  been  for  which  merciful  inter- 
vention, my  pleasing  tale  would  have  wanted  a  hero ; 
all  the  interesting  incidents  wherewith  I  am  about  to 
delight  my  readers  in  my  ensuing  chapters  would 
never  have  happened  to  him  :  and  he  would  probably 
have  been  at  this  time  still  sinking  and  sinking  through 
the  earth,  and  destined  eventually,  (if  gravity  does  not 
forbid  the  idea,)  to  reappear  in  the  shape  of  a  very  re- 
markable fossil  at  the  antipodes. 

Nor  was  the  Good  Woman  inferior  in  gratitude  to 
her  bad  son.  She  could  not,  indeed,  refrain  from 
coaxing  away  all  of  the  bear's  claws  but  two  to  orna- 
ment a  necklace  for  her  husband,  from  Herman,  who 
she  saw  was,  from  a  defective  education,  incapable  of 
appreciating  in  any  just  degree  their  beauty  and  worth  ; 
but,  not  satisfied  with  preparing  the  bear's  skin  with 
tlie  auburn  hair  on,  so  nicely  for  him,  that  he  slept  un- 
der it  every  cold  night  for  years  after,  she,  washing  to 
provide  for  him  a  pleasant  surprise,  managed  to  ab- 
stract from  his  tent  his  only  extant  pair  of  civilized 
boots,  steeped  them  in  the  animal's  grease  to  soften  the 
leather,  and  wrought  them  thickly  with  dyed  porcu- 
pine's quills,  after  which  they  were,  though  unctuous, 


186  HERMAN. 

impervious  to  the  wet.  She  also,  to  his  great  joy,  ob- 
tained for  the  kind  "  Meneaska,"  from  her  husband, 
an  invitation  to  take  up  his  quarters  at  his  lodge. 

Herman  did  so  immediately,  and  by  bringing,  as 
Mr.  Grubbe  advised,  his  own  clean  rugs  and  wrappings 
with  him,  made  himself  comfortable  enough,  and  would 
liave  been  more  so,  if  his  host's  ioterrb  had  not  pre- 
viously solemnly  enjoined  it  upon  him  in  a  dream,  if 
ever  he  passed  a  night  with  a  white  man  to  hop  twice 
or  thrice  like  a  frog  to  and  fro  across  his  pillow  at  mid- 
night. Herman  was  first  made  aw^are  of  this  rite 
rather  roughly,  by  being  awakened  at  the  proper  time 
by  a  smart  fillip  from  the  Chieftain's  toe,  in  his  nose, 
which  felt  at  the  moment  as  if  it  must  be  nearly  torn 
ofi";  but  the  agile  Taiquinsuwatish  improved  by  prac- 
tice, and  no  serious  accident  of  the  kind  occurred  again, 
though  his  guest  was  sorry  that  he  should  be  put  to  so 
much  trouble  on  his  account. 

]N"ot  many  nights  after,  when  Herman  and  What- 
taraskle,  having  taken  an  unusually  long  ramble  and 
scramble,  had  gone  to  bed  early,  leaving  Taiquinsuwa- 
tish still  out  at  a  gambling  entertainment,  and  Weah- 
washtay,  his  wife,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  on  a  bufiiilo- 
skin  before  the  fire,  and  soothing  to  sleep  her  youngest 
papoose,  who  was  ill,  Herman  was  awakened  by  hear- 
ing a  deep,  hollow  voice  at  the  door  say  : 

"  Weahwashtay  ?" 

"Esheke?     (Who  is  it?") 

"  Umpqua." 

With  a  wild  cry  of  joy  she  started  up,  rolling  the 
baby  oif  her  knees  upon  the  shaggy  hide,  and  clasped 
her  arms  around  the  neck  of  a  tall,  tottering,  advancing 
figure  of  a  man,  clad  in  a  single  squalid  mantle  of  worn- 
out  fur,  through  whose  rents  his  meagre  ribs  could  be 


THE    LAND    OF  SUBSET.  187 

seen.  He  wavered  and  faltered,  as  if  blinded  by  the 
dazzling  fire-light ;  but  throwing  back  her  head  to  look 
at  him,  she  dragged  him  forwards  to  it. 

"  Oh,  Umpqna,  where  are  jour  beautiful  robes  ?" 

''  Gone." 

"  Your  warriors  ?" 

''  Gone." 

^'  Papooses  ? — squaws  ?" — 

"  Gone.     All  gone." 

She  beat  her  breast,  and  cried  with  a  long  wail, 
"  Gone,  Umpqua,  gone-!— all  ? — Gone  how  ?  Gone 
where  ?" 

"  The  bad  Bostons !"  "^  groaned  out  the  poor  man, 
with  an  accent  of  indignant,  appealing  agony,  impossi- 
ble to  describe.  "  The  bad  Bostons  !"  he  repeated,  as 
if  no  other  words  could  express  the  full  depth  and  ex- 
tent of  his  wrongs  and  wretchedness. 

"  Umpqua  sit !  Umpqua  eat !  Umpqua  lie  !" 
cried  she,  bursting  into  a  perfect  storm  and  whirlwind 
of  tears  and  cries  of  wrath  and  pity,  and  seizing,  all  in 
the  sanrie  instant,  on  him  and  on  food  and  clothing  for 
him. 

"  Eat  ?  jS^o.  Drink  ?  Iso.  Live  ?  N"o  !"  replied 
he,  in  a  calmer  tone.  "  I  seek  not, — a  beggar, — my  kin- 
dred, to  live,  but  to  die.  Who  sleeps  there  with  no 
welcome  for  me  ?     Taiquinsuwatish  ?" 

"  Meneaska." 

His  voice  changed  from  despair  to  fury. 

"  What,  he  sleeps  warm  in  your  lodge,  while, 
driven  out,  I  w^ander  by  night,  in  dark,  cold,  rags,  and 
famine  !" 

He  caught  up  a  spear  and  sprang  madly  forward, 

*  The  name  given,  it  is  said,  by  the  Indians  of  Oregon,  to  those 
who  volnnteered  to  destroy  them. 


1 88  HERMAN. 

trailing  along  the  ground  Weahwaslitay,  who  clung  to 
his  waist,  shrieking  for  help  and  crying,  ^'  Oh,  strike 
him  not,  Umpqiia  !  He  good  !  He  armed !  Mene- 
aska,  have  pity  !  He  mad  !  He  my  brother !"  For 
Herman,  starting  up  on  one  knee  and  cocking  and 
presenting  his  loaded  rifle,  had  brought  the  stranger  to 
bay. 

They  looked  one  another  in  the  face  thus  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  and  then  TJmpqua,  apparently  impatient  of  de- 
lay, and  surprised  that  Herman  did  not  pull  the  trigger 
on  which  his  linger  rested,  dropped  his  spear,  bared  his 
breast  and,  proudly  throwing  back  his  head,  exclaimed, 
"  Fire  !  Finish  !*  Why  not  ?  Fear  not  !  I  fear 
not !" 

"Why  should  I  wish  to  kill  you,  or  you  to  kill 
me  ?"  said  Herman.  "  I  am  a  friend  to  the  Indians, 
and  a  friend  to  no  white  man  who  treats  them  ill. 
I  took  up  the  rifle  only  because  you  took  up  the  spear. 
You  have  laid  down  the  spear ;  I  lay  down  the  rifle." 

He  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  and  offered  his 
hand  with  a  smile.  "  What !  not  shake  hands  ?  Why 
should  you  hate  me  ?" 

"  I  take  no  white  man's  hand !"  said  TJmpqua, 
speaking  in  English,  and  rapidly  and  distinctly,  though 
with  a  marked  Indian  accent.  "I  hate  the  white  man  ! 
Why?  I  had  wide  plains  and  rivers  of  beasts  and 
birds,  fishes  and  roots.  I  said  not  to  the  white  man, 
Come ;  but  when  he  came,  I  did  not  say,  Go.  When 
he  was  hungry  and  cold,  I  gave  him  skins  and  food. 
When  he  was  strong,  he  took  them  away  from  me. 
When  he  was  weak,  I  let  him  hunt  on  my  prairies. 
When  he  was  strong,  he  said,  '  Go  away ;  you  shall 
not  come  here  !' 

"  I   hate   the   white   man !     Why  ?     I  had   many 


THE    LAXD    OF   SUXSET.  189 

wives,  but  one  I  loved  best.  I  found  a  white  squaw 
lost  in  the  woods.  She  sat  not  down,  like  the  red 
squaw,  cheerful  to  die,  but  held  out  her  hands  to  Ump- 
qua,  and  wept.  I  despised  her;  but  I  mercied  her, 
too,  and  gave  her  sweet  berries-  to  eat,  and  led  her  to 
mj  lodge,  and  said  to  my  best  wife,  '  Get  up  from  mv 
best  skin,  for  the  white  squaw  is  a  guest,  and  is  weary.' 
"We  fed  her  many  days.  When  her  people  came  ask- 
ing her,  I  gave  her  up  safe.  While  I  hunted,  the  white 
man  stole  my  best  wife.  She  cried  to  my  son  as  he 
passed.  The  boy  ran  to  his  mother.  The  white  man 
shot  him  dead. 

"  I  hate  the  white  man  !  Why  ?  Two  more  sons 
I  had.  The  diggers  (miners)  come  and  say,  '  They 
have  killed  a  white  man;  we  will  have  them  to  kill.' 
I  say,  '  No,  they  have  not  killed.'.  Your  blue-coat 
chief  at  the  strong  house,  he  say,  '  jSo,  you  shall  not 
have  them  to  ki]l.'  They  say  to  him,  '  Then  we  kill 
you  !'  Then  he  say,  '  Kill  away,  if  you  can  kill ; — me 
first,  and  them  after  !'  At  last,  all  the  white  men, 
they  say  together,  '  Let  us  have  them,  to  try  whether 
they  have  killed ;  and,  if  they  have  not,  let  them  come 
back  all  safe.'  So  I  say,  'All  right,'  for  I  know  they 
have  not  killed  ;  so  the  boys  go  with  soldiers.  They 
are  tried ;  they  have  not  killed.  '  Take  them  back 
safe,'  say  the  law  chief.  As  they  come,  they  are  killed. 
Then  I  say,  '  I  hate  the  white  man  !  I  will  live  beside 
him  no  more.  I  will  go  to  the  wild  bears  and  eagles. 
They  are  kinder  and  truer.'  Then  the  white  man 
say,  '  It  is  war  I  Umpqua  is  bad.  He  will  kill  us. 
Hunt  him  out.' 

"  I  hate  the  white  man !  Why?  I  build  my  lodge 
and  kindle  my  fire  alone,  far  up  on  the  high,  cold 
mountain.     I  say  to  my  sick  and  my  old,  my  women, 


190  HERMAJVf. 

my  babies,  '  Here  you  shall  rest,  safe  and  warm  ;  for 
who  wants  the  bare  bleak  mountain,  but  bears  and 
eagles  and  Umpqua  ?  This  we  will  have  to  oujselves, 
better  than  plains  with  bad  neighbours.'  By  night, 
the  bad  Bostons  awake  us,  with  pistols  and  rifles. 
I  fight  them.  They  run,  and  come  back  with  a  thun- 
der-gun and  lightning-balls  from  the  strong-house. 
They  hunt  my  sick  and  old,  my  squaws  and  my  ba- 
bies, in  the  cold  and  dark,  from  steep  slippery  mount- 
ain to  mountain.  They  shiver,  they  stumble,  they 
sicken,  they  starve,  they  die,  too  fast.  So  I  say,  ^  Let 
us  now  have  peace  !'  But  the  Bostons  say,  '  You  are 
bad.  You  love  us  not.  You  have  killed  us  too  many ; 
we  must  chastise  you.  We  will  frighten  you  first.' 
They  cannot  make  Umpqua  afraid !  But  I  send  to  the 
blue-coat  chief  and  say,  '  Only  let  them  not  hurt  the 
women  and  babies ;  we  hurt  not  your  women  and  ba- 
bies.' The  bad  Bostons  catch  on  a  high  rock  one  of 
my  sick  squaws,  with  two  papooses.  Some  say,  '  Hurt 
them  not.'  Some  shoot.  She  fail.  My  babies'  brains 
are  spilt  on  the  stones. 

"  I  hate  the  white  man  !  Why  ?  I  have  left  yet 
one  daughter.  When  I  am  great,  she  is  beautiful  in 
her  skins,  and  beads,  and  feathers  ;  .and  every  young 
chief  come  from  far,  and  say,  '  Give  her  to  me.'  But 
I  say,  '  No  ;  I  love  her  too  well ;  she  may  not  leave 
my  country.'  And  every  young  chief  come  from  near, 
and  say,  '  Give  her  to  me ;'  but  I  say,  '  'No ;  I  love 
her  too  well;  she  may  not  leave  my  lodge.'  Her 
beautiful  robes  gone ;  her  beautiful  face  going.  She 
is  tired,  and  cannot  rest ;  she  is  hungrj  and  faint,  and 
I  have  often  nothing  to  give  her.  Then  I  say,  '  Go  ; 
sleep  safe  in  the  white  squaw's  house,  and  eat  her 
bread.     Old  Umpqua  can  wander;  but  for  girls  it  is 


THE     LAXD    OF    SUXSET.  191 

bad.'  I  am  sad,  but  she  is  safe.  The  white  squaw 
sick.  She  moan,  '  I  want  water.'  The  girl  say,  '  I  go 
to  the  spring.'  She  sav,  '  Go  not ;  the  Bostons  will 
catch  YOU.'  My  girl  say,  'jSTo,  I  can  run  too  fast.' 
Thej  see  her.  Thej  call  her.  She  stop  not.  They 
shoot.     She  drop  dead !" 

"  Can  all  this  that  he  says  be  true  ?"  cried  Herman, 
turning  to  Mr,  Grubbe,  who  had  entered  with  the 
crowd  which  at  the  outcries  of  Weahwashtay  had  in- 
stantly filled  the  lodge. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  can't  be  true  that's  too  bad, 
in  Yoo  of  the  depravity  of  our  fallen  natur,  sir,"  replied 
the  old  man,  wiping  his  nose  a  great  deal  between  pity 
and  indignation. 

A  cry  from  Weahwashtay  recalled  their  attention  to 
the  poor  outcast.  His  tall  frame  reeled.  His  eyes 
were  glazed.  His  hands  were  groping  in  the  air,  as  if 
seeking  some  friendly  ones  to  grasp  them  again,  at  last, 
to  lead  him  on  his  last,  long  journey.  With  wail  upon 
wail,  Weahwashtay  clasped  them  in  her  own  ;  and 
then,  as  if  seized  with  his  death-pangs,  but  determined, 
a  chief  to  the  last  gasp,  to  yield  to  them  only  at  his 
own  time  and  pleasure,  he,  swaying  to  and  fro,  went 
down  and  down,  kneeling  first  on  one  knee,  and  then 
on  both,  then  sitting,  and  then  slowly  falling  back- 
wards, like  a  man  literally  sinking  by  inches  into  his 
grave.  After  a  few  moments,  he  recovered  himself 
enough  to  speak  again,  though  in  an  altered  tone: 
"  All  gone. — Breath  gone. — Heart  gone. — Umpqna 
gone. — Weahwashtay, — I  am  not  fit  to  die." 

This  appeal  was  answered  by  Weahwashtay's  in- 
stantly, in  the  midst  of  her  tears  and  sobs,  heaping  to- 
gether the  finest  clothes  in  the  lodge,  and  even  snatch- 
ing from  her  own  dress,  and  that  of  her  unresisting 


192  HERMAN. 

husband,  their  most  precious  ornaments,  to  clothe  and 
deck  the  lean,  scarred,  half-naked  form  before  her. 
Umpqua  received  her  cares  with  evident  satisfaction, 
and  even  assisted  her  in  them  feebly,  from  time  to 
time,  so  far  as  his  weakness  and  the  stupor  which  was 
stealing  upon  him  would  permit. 

His  appeal  was  answered  also  by  Mr.  Grubbe,  who, 
kneeling  beside  him,  eagerly  put  to  him  the  ordinary 
technical  theological  questions  of  his  school.  At  first, 
between  the  deafness  and  dulness  of  approaching 
death,  and  the  indistinctness  of  the  good  grieving  man's 
articulation,  Umpqua  did  not  seem  to  hear  or  under- 
stand. When  he  did,  he  neither  received  satisfaction 
nor  gave  it.  Mr.  G-rubbe,  greatly  shocked  and  dis- 
tressed, assured  him  in  his  most  earnest  and  compas- 
sionate manner,  that  if  he  died  in  his  present  state  of 
feeling,  an  eternity  of  hell-fire  must  be  his  portion. 
Umpqua,  reclosing  his  weary  eyes,  merely  replied, 
phlegmatically,  "  Then  me  get  a  little  sleep  now, 
first."  Mr.  Grubbe  persisted,  and  roused  him  to 
anger.  Drawing  in  his  short  breath,  to  hiss  out  his 
whispers  more  distinctly,  he  turned  his  head  with  an 
effort,  and  opening  his  eyes,  rolled  them  round  upon 
his  ghostly  adviser,  saying  as  an  after-thought,  "  I  hate 
the  white  man  1  Why  ?  He  say,  '  Spell  my  books, 
and  pray  my  God.  He  make  us  good. "  He  make  you 
wise,  happy.'  I  spell  your  white  books.  I  pray  your 
white  God.  He  make  me  not  happy.  He  make  you 
not  good.  He  make  you  too  strong,  and  crafty,  and 
bad,  and  lying,  for  Umpqua.  You  make  me  die, 
with  my  young  dead  before, — in  the  lodge,  in  the  skins 
of  another  !  Go.  I  will  die  ;  but  you  shall  not  see. 
Too  many  white  face  I  saw  in  my  life.  I  will  see  none 
while  I  die.     Go  !" 


THE     LAXD    OF    6UX8ET.  193 

He  was  seized  with  another  spasm ;  and  Herman 
saw  that  it  was  too  late  to  hope  to  change  a  state  of 
mind,  in  his  circumstances  so  natural  if  not  pardona- 
ble, that  their  presence,  and  the  associations  and  emo- 
tions which  it  awakened,  could  only  increase  his  suffer- 
ings and  hasten  his  end,  and  that  Mr.  Grubbe  was  in 
danger  of  stirring  up,  in  the  already  too  mucli  offended 
fi-iends  of  the  sufferer,  a  very  serious  exasperation,  not 
only  against  himself,  but  his  religion,  if  he  persisted 
long  in  preaching  it  with  a  pertinacity  so  untimely. 
He  therefore  left  the  lodge  at  once,  and  took  the  old 
man  with  hini,  "  with  gentle  yet  determined  Ibrce." 
Mr.  Grubbe  found  it  hard  to  forgive  him ;  for  when 
they  arose  in  the  morning,  Umpqua  was  dead.  He 
had  smiled  away  his  poor,  worn,  harassed,  hunted  life 
very  peacefully  at  last,  in  full-dress,  with  his  sister's 
hand  clasped  close  in  one  of  his,  and  her  husband's  best 
spear  in  the  other. 

"  That  precious  soul,  sir !  I  trust  its  everlasting  de- 
struction lies  more  on  your  conscience  than  mine  ;  but  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself" 

"  My  dear  old  friend !  How  can  you  suppose,  that 
our  merciful  Father  in  heaven  has  anything  but  the 
tenderest  pity  in  store  for  that  poor  ignorant  child  of 
Kature,  who  had  been,  if  we  can  trust  his  own  account 
at  all,  so  much  more  sinned  against  than  sinning  ?" 

"  He  denied  his  Lord,  sir  !" 

"  What  did  he  know  about  his  Lord  ?  IS'othing, 
most  likely,  except  a  few  bald,  confused,  contradictory 
statements,  which  he  could  not  understand,  from  a 
class  of  men  whom  he  had  found  for  the  most  part,  in 
matters  which  he  could  understand,  to  be  utterly  un- 
trustworthy. He  spoke  disrespectfully  of  our  white 
god,  just  as  he  might  have  done  of  the  totem  of  anv 

'    "^  9 


1 94  HERMAN. 

Indian  of  whom  he  had  reason  to  think  very  ill.  He 
spoke  very  disrespectfully  to  you,  too,  not  knowing 
you.     Cannot  you  forgive  him  ?" 

"  Do  yon  take  me  for  a  Turk,  sir  ?" 

^'JN^o,  for  a  most  forgiving  and  compassionate 
Christian,  but  yet  for  a  far  less  forgiving,  considerate, 
and  compassionate  person  than  Christ.  The  guilt  of 
this  poor  savage's  abjuration  seems  to  lie,  chiefly  or 
solely,  with  those  who  drove  him  to  it,  by  disgracing 
and  practically  denying  their  faith;  and  very  heavy 
guilt  theirs  is ;  and  we  might  have  come  in  for  a  share 
of  it,  if,  when  he  thought  he  had  at  length  fairly  got 
away  from  all  of  us  to  die  in  peace  among  his  kindred, 
we  had  remained  to  beset  him  on  his  death-bed,  while 
the  very  sight  and  sound  of  us,  if  half  he  said  was  true, 
might  well  have  been  enough  to  unsettle  his  reason. 
Do  you  think  we  could  have  made  him  love  our  God, 
and  all  in  a  minute,  too,  by  making  him  angry 
with  us  f ' 

"  I  believe  in  instantaneous  conversion,  sir." 

"  I  scarcely  believe  in  any  great  chance  of  it  in  that 
case.  Besides,  it  might  have  taken  but  very  little  more, 
— after  what  his  friends  had  just  heard, — of  what  they 
must  have  considered  persecution  of  him,  to  induce 
them  to  murder  you  ;  and  then  what,  do  you  think, 
would  have  become  of  their  souls  ?" 

"  We  had  ought  to  do  our  dooty,  and  take  the  con- 
sequences, sir." 

"  No  doubt ;  but  ought  we  to  do  it  in  an  injudi- 
cious way,  and  thereby  bring  bad  consequences  unne- 
cessarily upon  others?" 

"  I  am  content  to  be  a  fool  for  the  gospel,  sir." 

"  So  was  St.  Paul ;  but  he  was  also  contented  to  be 
all  things  to   all  men,  and  to  give  none  unnecessary 


THE     LAXD    OF    6UXj:ET.  195 

offence.  Besides,  I  do  not  think  we  were  beginning 
with  Umpqua,  in  a  Christian — I  mean  a  Christ-like 
— way.  He  was  worn-out  and  broken-hearted.  Christ 
said,  '  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy- 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest,' — not  '  Come  unto  me, 
all  ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy-laden,  or  I  will  give 
you  hell-fire.' — Indeed,  you  must  forgive  me.  I  do  not 
mean  to  forget  for  a  moment  that  I  am  a  much  vomwer 

O  tJ  CI 

and  less  experienced  man  than  you  ;  but  I  should  be 
exceedingly  sorry,  for  the  Indian's  sake,  to  have  them 
further  irritated  now.  We  must  remember  what  an 
unfortunate  impression  Umpqua's  story  must  have 
made  upon  such  impetuous,  undisciplined  creatures." 

Herman  sent  a  resplendent  brooch  of  ruby-glass  and 
gilding  to  Weahwashtay,  as  an  additional  decoration 
for  the  corpse,  which  sat  in  state  in  a  lodge  near  her 
own.  He  also  requested  permission  to  come  to  tlie 
funeral,  and  sat  among  the  silent  mourners  patiently 
througli  that  day  and  the  following  night,  as  sincere  a 
mourner  as  any  there  ;  while,  within  him,  his  heart 
preached  to  him  an  awful  sermon,  upon  the  text, 
"  Woe  unto  the  world,  because  of  offences  !  For  it 
must  needs  be  that  offences  come ;  but  woe  to  that  man 
by  whom  the  offence  cometh."  He  mourned  not  only 
as  a  man,  for  the  poor  fellow  man  so  wantonly  done  to 
death,  but  as  a  Christian,  for  his  Master  crucified 
afresh  even  in  these  days,  and  put  to  an  open  shame, 
by  the  barbarities  practised  by  those  baptized  in  his 
name  upon  their  weaker  brethren  ;  and,  as  a  patriot, 
for  the  disgrace  of  his  country,  so  harsh  a  ste])-mother 
to  some  of  her  feebler  swarthier  sons. 

His  unaffected  sympathy  and  sorrow  were  not  lost 
upon  his  hosts.  They,  by  the  time  they  went  out  about 
their  usual  business  again,  invited  him  to  join  them  at 


196  HERMAN. 

hunt  and  feast  as  freely  as  before.  He  hoped  the  storm 
had  blown  over,  and,  no  longer  fearing  for  Mr.  Grubbe, 
went  out  as  usual,  leaving  him  to  take  care  of  himself. 
The  opportunity  was  not  lost  upon  that  worthy  man. 
On  returning  from  a  solitary  ride  one  day,  Herman 
met  several  very  sinister  looks  from  an  equal  number 
of  pairs  of  dark  eyes,  and  found  Weahwashtay,  with 
her  baby  in  her  arms,  sitting  at  the  door  of  her  lodge, 
a  most  gory  and  unpleasing  spectacle,  having  cut 
herself  into  the  very  image  of  ugliness  with  a  knife. 
On  his  kindly  asking  her  the  cause,  she,  altogether  con- 
trary to  her  custom,  turned  away  her  head  moodily, 
and  made  no  reply. 

Herman  easily  coaxed  the  whole  story  out  of  What- 
taraskle.  Mr.  Grubbe  had  been  easing  his  conscience 
by  assuring  tbe  tribe,  according  to  the  boy,  that  they 
were  all  going  to  be  burnt  up,  as  soon  as  they  died,  by 
his  white  god,  because  a  white  man  ate  a  papaw  once, 
a  long  time  ago,  if  they  didn't  get  something, — a  hard 
word, — Whattaraskle  couldn't  say  it,  and  didn't  know 
what  it  meant,  but  he  guessed  it  was  'some  kind  of  new 
totem  ; — and  that  his  white  god  was  burning  Umpqua 
very  bad  now,  and  never  would  stop,  because  he  spoke 
ill  of  the  white  god,  and  did  not  love  the  Bostons. 
(It  was  very  unreasonable  in  the  Indians  not  to  be 
grateful  to  their  instructor,  no  doubt ;  but  might  not 
we  be  a  little  ungrateful  to  the  Romish  priest,  who, 
after  we  had  had  a  relation,  or  friend,  worried  out  of 
his  life  by  the  inquisition,  should,  with  the  best  inten- 
tions, endeavour  perseveringly  to  convince  us,  for  the 
good  of  our  souls,  that  our  dear  departed  was  partaking 
of  unmingled  brimstone  in  consequence  of  his  having 
indulged,  in  his  ignorance,  in  uncomplimentary  ex- 
pressions respecting  the  triple  tiara,  and  died  out  of 


THE     LA2sD    OF    SUNSET.  197 

fervent  charity  with  the  inquisitors.  Perhaps,  in  such 
circumstances,  even  civilized  we  miglit  be  somewhat 
unreasonable.  Let  us  hope  not ;  but  who  can  tell  ?) 
Whattaraskle  further  deposed  that  AVeahwashtay  did 
not  want  the  Meneaskas  there,  bringing  their  white  god 
around  the  lodges ;  because  the  papoose  was  sick,  and 
she  was  afraid,  if  it  died,  he  would  get  it  to  burn,  too. 
Moreover  Whattaraskle  thought  that  the  white  god 
must  be  silly  as  well  as  cross ;  because  the  old  Meneaska 
said  that  if  they  minded  him,  and  did  not  drink  fire- 
water nor  smoke  tobacco,  he  would  pay  them  by 
making  them  rest  always,  a  great  long  lite, — so  much 
longer  than  this,  it  never  would  leave  off, — and  do  no- 
thing but  sit  still  and  sing  in  the  clouds,  and  never 
jump  down  and  run.  But  Whattaraskle  did  not  want 
to  run  and  ride  a  little  while,  and  then  rest  a  great 
long  while.  He  ran  and  rode  a  great  while  and  rested 
a  little  while,  and  jumped  up  again. 

This  view  of  the  case,  Herman  could  very  well  un- 
derstand and  sympathize  with,  with  his  young  blood 
still  dancing  in  his  veins,  like  that  of  the  Indian  boy, 
from  the  hunts  of  the  preceding  days.  He  felt  how 
much  more  even  this  rugged  life,  with  its  trials  and 
triumphs,  was  to  him  in  his  moments  of  highest  and 
purest  emotion,  than  a  stagnant  eternity  of  mere 
clouds  and  psalm-singing  could  be.  He  did  not  be- 
lieve that  God,  the  fountain-head  of  life,  genius,  and 
action,  the  ever-working,  ever-creative  Mind  of  minds, 
could  have  so  wondrously  and  variously  endowed  the 
human  soul,  with  no  other  purpose  than  that  of  smiting 
all  its  powers  but  two  or  three,  almost  as  soon  as  it  be- 
gan to  put  them  forth,  with  an  everlasting  catalepsy. 
He  did  not  in  the  least  believe  that  the  Bible,  rightly 
understood,  confirmed  any  such  ideas.     He  was  sorry 


198  HERMAN. 

to  interfere  between  Mr.  Grubbe  and  his  neophytes  ; 
but,  for  their  sake  and  his,  the  case  appeared  to  be  one 
which  left  him  no  choice. 

Herman  at  once  songht  ont  Taiquinsnwatish,  who 
was  a  kind-hearted  and,  for  an  utterly  uneducated,  a 
remarkably  intelligent  man,  took  him  to  his  tent,  pro- 
..pitiated  liim  with  simple  dainties,  and  then  told  him  in 
confidence,  that  he  was  sorry  to  hear  that  some  of  his 
young  men,  who  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  be  so 
sensible  as  himself,  had  been  displeased  by  some  things 
which  had  been  said  by  Mr.  Grubbe.  Mr.  Grubbe 
loved  them,  and  meant  to  tell  them  nothing  but  the 
truth.  It  was  a  pity  to  be  angry  with  him,  for  he 
was  a  good  man  ;  but,  as  Taiquinsuwatisli  might  have 
observed,  he  was  a  very  simple  man ;  and  there  were 
some  things  in  the  Great  Spirit's  message  very  puzzling 
to  white  men  themselves, — quite  too  puzzling  for  Mr. 
Grubbe  to  understand,  he  was  sure.  If  Taiquinsn- 
watish would  give  him  leave,  Herman  would  tell  him 
and  his  young  men  what  he  knew  about  it.  Flattered 
and  curious,  Taiquinsnwatish  readily  gave  his  con- 
sent. 

Herman  led  them  to  a  little  distance  from  the  camp, 
that  Weahwashtay  might  not  again  be  frightened. 
Then,  while  a  burning  mountain  before  him,  now  veil- 
ing its  face  with  smoke  and  now  glaring  with  flame, 
reminded  him  solemnly  of  Moses  and  Sinai,  he  ex- 
plained to  them, — I  leave  my  readers,  from  their  past 
and  future  knowledge  of  Herman,  to  imagine  how, — 
the  simple  theology  and  ethics  of  the  gospels. 

At  every  pause  in  his  discourse,  there  was  from  the 
attentive  listeners  a  punctual  response  of  "  Hoogh  !" 
At  the  close,  Taiquinsnwatish  came  up  to  Herman  and 
took  him  by  the  hand,  saying  in  his  broken  English, 


THE    LAND    OF    SUNSET.  199 

which  he  was  proud  of  speaking,  "  I  been  like  little 
child,  uneasy,  feeling  round  in  the  dark  for  something, 
— I  know  not  what.  Now  I  hope  learn  something 
true,  for  help  me  to  learn  my  people  do  right.  Give 
me  truth.     I  love  not  silly  lies." 

Herman  determined  that  this  appeal  should  not  be 
disregarded,  and  that,  as  soon  as  possible  after  his  re- 
turn home,  he  would  endeavour  to  send  out  a  missionary, 
better  instructed  than  himself,  to  this  interesting  and 
inquiring  people.  In  the  meantime  he  taught  them 
what  he  knew,  and  was  always  listened  to  with  good 
will,  even  by  Weahwashtay  after  her  child  had  re- 
covered. -Mr.  Grubbe,  by  means  of  his  powerful 
mediation,  was  again  taken  into  favor,  but  not  as  a 
theologian.  "Man  good, — talk  kapse-is — bad," — was 
the  most  merciful  verdict  pronounced  upon  him  by  the 
copper-faced  public.  Taiquinsuwatish  declared  that  he 
must  either  "  shut  up  his  tongue,  or  leave :  for  if  he 
made  mad  the  young  men,  they  would  do  him  some- 
thing, and  he  [Taiquinsuwatish]  could  not  help ;  and 
then  the  Bostons  would  come."  Mr.  Grubbe  thought 
Herman  extremely  latitudinarian,  and  altogether  repre- 
hensible ;  but  Herman  was  very  glad,  notwithstand- 
ing, that  he  was  alive  to  tell  him  so,  and  contented 
himself  with  saying  to  himself,  "  Great  God !  how  is 
this  poor  evil  world  ever  to  be  hallowed,  if  wickedness 
is  so  wide  and  goodness  is  so  narrow  ?" 

Far  away  there  we  must  now  leave  bim  yet  a  little 
longer,  seeing  fox-dances,  buffalo-dances,  and  all  sorts 
of  wild -beast  dances,  war -parties,  hunting-parties, 
gambling- parties,  and  all  sorts  of  savage  parties, — seeing 
mourners  give  away  their  best  horses  or  clothes,  for 
grief  at  the  loss  of  their  friends  or  loves,  just  as  he  had 
given  away  himself  for  grief  at  the  loss  of  his  Con- 


200  hek:man. 

stance, — thinking  how  like  an  elvish  parody  upon  oui 
life  all  their  life  was,  with  its  worthless  finery  so 
highly  prized,  its  silly,  fantastic,  imperative  point  of 
honor,  its  wars  and  single  combats,  about  nothing  and 
bringing  about  nothing,  and  its  endless  toil  to  no  end 
but  the  grave, — wondering  whether,  in  the  sight  of  God 
and  the  holy  angels,  our  civilized  pomp,  and  worldly 
strifes  and  achievements, were  worth  any  more  than  their 
uncivilized,  or  would  seem  so  in  ours,  a  few  years  after, 
when  we  should  look  back  upon  them  with  the  eyes  of 
departing  spirits, — and  sometimes  wishing,  with  the 
waywardness  of  youth  and  sorrow,  that  there  hence- 
forth he  might  spend  all  his  days,  seeing  tlie  crowded 
haunts  of  white-skinned  men  no  more,  till  in  old  age 
it  should  seem  to  him  a  half-forgotten  dream  that  they 
had  ever  been  his  own  and,  clad  in  skins,  eating 
strange  food,  and  speaking  a  strange  language,  could 
wear  his  life  away,  retired  in  these  wild  solitudes,  with 
their  uncouth  but  not  ungrateful  children,  sporting 
with  them,  teaching  them,  and  protecting  them,  re- 
vered by  them  in  his  life,  and  seeing  their  dark  weep- 
ing faces  around  him  in  his  death. 


THE    KNIGHT    FASTS.  201 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    KNIGHT    FASTS. 

"  I  think  a  wise  and  constant  man  ought  never  to  grieve  while  he 
dolh  play,  as  a  man  may  say,  his  own  part  truly,  though  others  be 
out."  Sir  Philip  SYD^'EY. 

•'  Let  any  one  set  his  heart,  in  these  days,  to  do  what  is  right,  and 
nothing  else,  and  it  will  not  be  long  ere  his  brow  is  stamped  with  all 
that  goes  to  make  up  the  heroical  expression — with  noble  indigna- 
tion, noble  self-restraint,  great  hopes,  great  sorrows ;  perhaps,  even, 
with  the  print  of  the  martyr's  crown  of  thorns. " 

KiNGSLET. 

"  AxD  David  went  to  Samuel,  to  Xaioth  of  Eamah, 
and  dwelt  there  ;"  these  words,  by  some  perhaps  whimsi- 
cal association,  kept  running  in  my  head  this  morning, 
while  I  sat  with  Clara  Arden.  David  had  been  high  in 
favor  and  in  hope.  He  had  fallen  through  no  fault  of 
his.  He  had  been  forced  to  leave  all,  home,  kindred, 
friends,  and  even  his  beloved, — and  she  was  a  princess, 
— and  had  taken  refuge  on  the  mountain,  w4th  the 
grim  old  prophet.  The  gentle  shepherd  was  in  process 
of  change  into  the  kingly  warrior.  Xursed  by  Love  and 
Song,  he  had  become  the  pupil  of  hero-fashioning  Ad- 
versity. He  had  thrown  the  harp  from  his  fine  touch, 
and  was  learning  to  say,  ''  Lord,  teach  my  hands  to 
war,  and  my  fingers  to  fight."  He  was  anointed,  in- 
deed, but  uncrowned ;  and  his  peaceful,  harmonious, 
kindly  life,  was  doomed  to  be  thenceforward  a  long 
battle.  With  some  change  of  costume  and  scenery, 
David  seemed  to  stand  before  me  in  a  picture, 
9* 


202  HERMAii. 

which  Clara  took  me  into  her  sitting-room  to  see,  and 
wept  while  she  looked  at. 

It  was  a  large  and  admirably  painted  picture,  of  a 
youth  in  the  morning  of  manhood.  He  stood  alone  in 
a  wild  mountain  landscape,  with  lightning  darting 
from  a  heavy,  leaden,  and  lurid  cloud  above  him,  and  all 
the  air  around  him  darkened  with  a  look  of  thunder ; 
ont  of  which  his  face  seemed  almost  to  shine  in  the 
glare  of  the  flash.  A  coat  of  shaggy  skin  was  girt 
about  his  slight  waist  with  a  soldier's  sash.  He  held 
and  lightly  leaned  upon  a  rifle  in  his  right  hand  ;  and 
I  scarcely  needed  to  be  told  as  I  was,  that  the  grasp  of 
that  slender  hand  had  been,  at  need,  like  the  gripe  of 
Death,  which  only  Death  could  unloose  ;  nor  that  the 
moccasined  foot,  planted  so  lightly  and  flrmly  among 
the  crags  where  he  stood,  was  as  sure  and  almost  as 
swift  as  that  of  the  huge-horned  Rocky  Mountain 
sheep,  which,  perched  just  above  him,  looked  down 
upon  him  confidingly,  while  beneath  him,  on  the  other 
side,  a  wolf  skulked  away.  His  features  were  of  the 
finest  and  rarest  Roman  type,  at  once  regular,  sym- 
metrical, delicate,  and  noble.  His  coloring  was  dark, 
mellow,  warm,  and  clear.  Such  outlines  with  such 
tints  would  alone  suffice  to  make  a  very  handsome 
man.  There  was  an  expression  about  this  man  which 
made  him  far  more  than  that.  Slender  as  he  was,  he 
looked  so  mysteriously,  infinitely,  full  of  power  and 
life, — not  the  ugly,  gross,  soulless,  material  life  of  the 
prize-fighter  or  the  anaconda,  but  the  irresistible  nerve 
and  energy  of  some  superhuman  man  or  manly  angel! 
— It  was  easy  to  see  that  it  was  a  high  and  strong 
heart,  which  sent  up  the  generous  red  blood  to  bear 
witness  of  it  in  those  smooth  olive  cheeks.  That 
mouth  was  not  more  sweet  than  strong.     Those  deep, 


THE     KNIGHT     FASTS.  203 

dark,  musing  eyes,  seemed  overcast  and  darkened  witli 
the  shadow  of  approachins:  doom, — to  feel,  but  not  to 
fear  it.  One  would  not  like  to  meet  a  foe  in  such  a 
man.  With  such  a  man  at  one's  side,  one  would 
scarcely  fear  to  cope  with  any  other  foe.  Resolute, 
concentrated,  imperial,  impassioned  more  than  pas- 
sionate, he  seemed  as  if  born  to  subdue  first  himself 
and  then  the  world.  If  he  was  such  in  the  dawn  of 
his  manhood,  what  was  he  in  its  prime  ?  TThat  and 
where  are  such  men  in  their  prime  ?  Go,  ask  the  sera- 
phim !  In  what  a^e  has  the  world  not  rejected  some 
of  those  of  whom  it  was  not  worthy  ?  They  overcome 
it ;  but  the  Cross  by  which,  like  their  Master,  they 
conquer,  lifts  them  from  it  ;  they  shake  its  dust  from 
their  climbing  feet,  and  leave  it  beneath  them  ;  and  a 
cloud  receives  them  out  of  their  sight. 

But  was  it  so  with  Herman  ?  Let  us  hope  not. 
Let  us  go  on,  and  we  shall  see.  He  had  nnboyed 
himself  wonderfully  in  the  few  months  of  his  absence. 
Perhaps  we  are,  many  of  us,  made  old  by  months,  and 
days  even,  rather  than  by  years.  There  was  an  alter- 
ation in  him  which,  though  she  would  hardly  own  it 
even  to  herself,  surprised  and  disappointed  Clara.  She 
felt  it  from  the  first,  even  in  the  bright  week  that  she 
and  her  brothers  spent,  immediately  after  his  arrival, 
at  Sea  Farm,  that  they  might  not  fail  of  their  annual  pil- 
grimage. She  had  a  more  assiduous,  considerate,  and 
devoted  brother,  than  she  had  ever  had  before ;  but  he 
no  longer  needed  that  she  should  devote  herself  to  him. 
She  had  got  back  a  man  instead  of  a  stripling  ;  and  he 
seemed  to  her  a  sort  of  changeling.  She  admired,  re- 
spected, and  loved  the  man  :  but  then,  she  missed  the 
boy.  It  was  all  very  well  to  have  some  one  to  pet  her ; 
but  she  had  always  had  Xed  to  serve  her  in  that  capa- 


204:  HERMAN. 

city.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Tommy  and  Bessy,  she 
did  not  know  what  she  should  have  done  now  for 
something  to  pet.  She  tried  to  convince  herself  that 
it  was  the  bronze  of  travel  that  made  half  the  differ- 
ence in  him,  and  her  fancy  the  rest ;  but  when  the 
former  wore  off,  the  latter  remained  the  same, — if  it 
was  a  fancy ;  but  she  had,  howsoever  slowly  and  un- 
willingly, to  make  up  her  mind  that  it  was  not.  His 
face  was  very  handsome  still, — far  handsomer  than 
ever  before,  Edward  said, — but  it  was  not  the  dear  old 
young  face,  which  had  leaned  on  her  shoulder  so  often, 
and  which  she  had  been  promising  herself,  every  day 
for  weeks  past,  that  she  should  soon  see  again.  That 
was  gone, — nobody  knew  where, — and  she  should 
never  see  it  again.  She  could  have  cried  to  think  so. 
The  look  that  Constance  wondered  at,  and  admired  in 
opite  of  herself,  in  her  last  interview  with  him,  had  be- 
come, when  at  rest,  the  most  habitual  expression  of 
his  countenance.  It  was  often,  at  such  times,  almost 
ntern  in  its  determination.  There  was  that  in  it  wliich 
showed,  that  the  soul  within  had  thrown  its  silken 
robes  of  dalliance  off,  and  put  its  armor  on.  At  such 
times,  Clara  often  sat  and  watched  him  unobserved, 
until  her  interest  grew  to  pain,  as  if  the  change  had 
put  some  barrier,  inexplicable  but  impassable,  between 
him  and  her ;  and  then  she  would  rise  involuntarily, 
go  to  him,  and  put  her  hand  in  his  or  force  some  play- 
ful speech,  when  out  would  still  come  his  own  old  smile, 
all  the  more  sweet  and  bright  by  contrast,  and  show  her 
that,  however  it  might  be  towards  others,  towards  her 
he  could  not  change,  except  to  become  less  her  charge 
and  play-fellow  and  more  her  protector,  or,  if  she 
would  have  it  so,  her  counsellor. 

There  might  have  been  more  reasons  than  she  knew 


THE     KXIGHT    FASTS.  205 

for  his  gravity.  In  the  iirst  place,  well  as  he  acknow- 
ledged that  her  affection  deserved  his  confidence,  and 
hard  as  he  had  tried  to  accord  it,  he  had  probably  not 
succeeded  in  telling  her  half  how  well  he  loved  Con- 
stance Aspen  wall.  (What  man,  who  knows  how  to" 
love,  ever  cares  to  expatiate  much  on  a  disappointed 
love  ?)  It  was  strange  perhaps  that  he  should  love  her 
so ;  but  so  he  did.  He  had  never  been  able  to  see  any 
fault  in  her,  from  the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance 
to  its  close,  but  one ;  and  even  that  his  dazzled  eyes 
saw  as  something  apart  from  her, — not  her  fault,  but 
the  fault  of  her  training,  or  want  of  training.  Her 
soul  on  one  occasion,  and  on  one  alone,  had  appeared 
before  him  in  an  ugly  dress ;  but  that  he  considered  as 
merely  the  fault  of  the  dress-maker.  His  passionate 
tenderness  immediately  substituted  for  it  the  garb  of  a 
goddess  ;  and  in  this  her  image  stood  evermore  clothed 
in  his  thoughts.  She  was  that  rare  thing, — so  much 
oftener  heard  of  than  seen, — a  perfect  beauty,  and 
moreover  brilliant,  ardent,  and,  where  she  loved,  rav- 
ishingly  lovely  ;  yet  she  was  certainly  not,  at  this  time 
at  least,  all  that  he  thought  her. 

I  cannot  undertake  to  defend  his  delusion ;  but  in 
extenuation  I  must  state,  that  it  is  a  common,  not  to 
say  a  universal,  one.  Enamored  lads  and  lasses,  you 
see  in  each  other  not  what  you  have  really  found,  but 
what  you  have  ideally  found, — what  Mr.  Dickens 
says  you  all  see  in  your  looking-glasses, — "  the  pleasing 
reflection  of  your  own  fancy."  Sly  Puck,  believe  me, 
did  not  use  up  all  of  the  juice  of  the  "  little  western 
flower"  upon  Titania's  eyes,  nor  on  those  of  the 
Athenian  lovers.  I  can  see  the  traces  of  it  upon  the 
drooping  lids  of  almost  all  of  you.  Cupid  weaves  and 
baits  the  snares  for  you ;  but  he  leaves  it  to  Chance  to 


200  HERMAN. 

set  them  in  the  way  of  the  unwary.  Tityrus,  if,  at  the 
time  when  you  first  saw  Amaryllis  in  Italy,  the  Fates 
had  thrown  you  in  England  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a 
trap  with  Phillis  in  it,  Phillis  would  have  caught  you ; 
and  you  would  have  preferred  her  "  herbs  and  other 
savory*  messes,"  to  the  juice  of  all  Amaryllis's  figs  and 
oranges.  Cory  don  and  Amaryllis,  ditto,  ditto.  Col- 
lectively you  would  have  worshipped  your  golden- 
haired  and  raven-tressed  divinities  as  extravagantly, — 
I  mean  appreciatingly, — as  you  now  do ;  severally  you 
would  have  changed  idols.  "  Propinquity,  my  dears," 
as  Mrs.  Broadstone  said,  "  Propinquity  !" 
"  Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall;" 

and  when  it  comes,  fall  they  do  headlong,in  the  dust, 
on  the  flower-bed,  or  among  the  nettles,  as  the  case 
may  be  ;  and  so  have  hearts  their  time,  chiefly  between 
the  ages  of  sixteen  and  thirty,  to  fall, — in  love; — and  they 
do  it  likewise  in  a  rather  precipitate  and  indiscriminate 
way,  as  the  wind  may  happen  to  blow  ;  but  Herman's 
fell  upon  a  queen-lily,  and  clung  to  it  henceforth.  He  was 
not  mistaken  in  thinking  Constance  a  rare  woman,  if  he 
was,  in  thinking  her  more  than  a  woman.  He  thought 
her  more  than  a  woman,  and  suffered  accordingly. 

In  the  second  place,  there  was  a  change  in  his  posi- 
tion in  society,  in  consequence  of  his  speech, — speeches, 
rather,  for  he  soon  found  occasion  to  follow  up  the 
former  with  others  equally  eloquent,  and  much  more 
effective  because,  with  growing  tact,  better  adapted  to 
his  audiences. — That  change  in  his  position  can  per- 
haps be  thoroughly  understood  only  by  those  who, 
members  themselves  of  unfashionable  political  parties, 
have  moved  in  fashionable  society  when  parties  ran 


Let  ua  afl  an  emendation  propose  savorier. 


THE     KNIGHT     FASTS.  207 

high.  He  had  hitherto  enjoyed  his  share  of  the  social 
consideration  which  two  or  three  generations  of  wealth, 
tastefully  used,  had  entailed  upon  his  family.  With- 
out the  least  self-conceit,  he  had  hitherto,  from  pure 
inexperience,  want  of  knowledge  of  the  world,  and 
confidence  in  the  good  faith  of  others,  unthinkingly  as 
young  persons  are  apt  to  do  in  similar  circumstances, 
taken  it  for  granted  that  the  cordial  welcome  and 
charming  courtesy  which  he  met  with  whereyer  he 
went,  were  the  expression  of  a  sincere  liking  and  re- 
spect for  his  person  and  character,  and  that  they  could 
hardly  be  forfeited  among  the  generality  of  his  neigh- 
bours, unless  by  misconduct  on  his  part.  To  his  surprise, 
the  welcome,  the  charm,  and  the  courtesy  were,  not  to  be 
sure  universally,but  somewhat  generally,  altered.  The 
well-bred  now  often  treated  him  with  cool  good-breed- 
ing ;  the  ill-bred,  with  cool  ill-breeding.  Some  hon- 
estly thought  his  political  course  wrong ;  some,  with- 
out caring  particularly  whether  it  was  wrong  or  right, 
thought  it  most  inconyenient  and  exasperating ;  and 
others,  again,  without  thinking  at  all,  took  their  cue 
from  the  rest. 

It  is  no  doubt  a  yer}^  trifling  thing  to  haye  a  single 
little  drop  of  cold  water  thrown  upon  one's  head  ;  but 
a  yery  long  succession  of  such  little  drops,  dropped 
upon  the  same  worn  and  intenerated  spot,  may  in  time 
have  an  unpleasant  effect  eyen  upon  one's  reason  ;  and 
it  certainly  must  strike  the  sufferer  oddly  at  first,  when 
he  finds  old  neighbours,  whom  he  has  always  regarded 
as  friends  as  far  as  anything,  yolunteering  as  amateur 
executioners,  whenever  he  comes  in  their  way,  to  ad- 
minister each  his  globule  of  the  homoeopathic,  hydro- 
pathic, cumulative,  torment.  When  it  falls  upon  a  heart 
that  already  knows  its  own  secret  separate  bitterness, 


208  HEKMAJSr. 

the  case  is  harder  yet.  Cold  water,  however,  is  a  bad 
or  a  good  thing,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  stuff  it 
has  to  act  upon.  It  softens  plaster ;  steel,  it  tempers. 
Let  Tyranny,  social  or  individual,  plunge  in  it  the 
sword  of  Liberty  glowing  from  the  forge.  The  sword 
will  hardly  drown,  or  come  out  again  the  more  pliant 
for  the  treatment. 

Herman  would  not  mention  to  his  sister  the  petty 
daily  annoyances  to  which  he  was  subjected.  He 
thought  that  women,  being  excluded  from  the  agreea- 
ble excitements  of  political  life,  ought  also  to  be  privi- 
leged against  the  disagreeable.  He  did  not  wish 
to  separate  her  from  her  old  friends.  He  knew  her 
well  enough  to  fear  that,  however  the  opaque  polish  of 
her  manners  might  cover  her  indignation,  her  feelings, 
if  she  once  saw  how  matters  stood,  might  be  seriously 
and  permanently  altered  towards  any  of  them  who 
proved  fickle  towards  him.  To  Edward  he  did  drop  a 
hint  or  two.  Edward  administered  consolation  some- 
what after  the  fashion  of  Eliphaz  the  Temanite,  Bil- 
dad  the  Shuhite,  and  Zophar  the  J^aamathite,  rolled 
into  one.  In  the  first  place,  he  extenuated,  if  he  did 
not  defend,  Coventry ;  in  the  second,  he  denied  its 
existence  : 

"  You  have  always  held  yourself  aloof  from  other  peo- 
ple, my  dear  man.  Why  should  you  expect  them  to  stand 
by  you  ?  You  have  been  a  perfect  Peter  the  Hermit ;  and 
now  you  come  out  before  them  with  a  ragamufiin  party, 
and  preach  a  crusade  against  all  their  souls  hold  dear, — 
or  mean  to  hold  dear,  if  they  can, — factory  denims^  and 
negro  stuffs,  for  instance.  Not  being  very  well  ac- 
quainted with  you  previously, — whose  fault  is  that? — 
they  were  unwearied  in  requesting  the  honor  and  the 
pleasure  of  your  company, — they  naturally  think  you 


THE     KMGHT     FASTS.  209 

crazy.  Learn  a  lesson  for  the  future  ;  and  if  you  ex- 
pect to  influence  men,  and  have  them  stick  to  you  in 
times  like  these,  show  yourself  among  them,  and 
make  yourself  agreeable  and  necessary  to  .them  at  all 
times." 

"  I  always  felt  kindly  towards  our  acquaintances. 
I  supposed  that  they  knew  it." 

"  How  ?" 

"  By  taking  it  for  granted,  I  suppose ;  as  I  did,  that 
they  felt  kindly  towards  me." 

"  You  were  a  guileless  youth,  if  you  took  anything 
of  the  sort  for  granted.  The  generous  public,  not  be- 
ing guileless,  usually  requires  stronger  proof.  Besides, 
you  labor  under  the  further  disadvantage  of  belonging 
to  a  conspicuous  and  rather  wealthy  family.  Don't 
you  know  that  weaJth  and  family  are  positive  sins 
against  the  peace  of  Demos,  to  be  atoned  for,  at  the 
jealous  old  fellow's  tribunal,  only  by  general  sociability 
and  scrupulous  observance  on  the  part  of  him  who  is 
guilty  of  them  ?  An  unfashionable  and  obscure  man 
may  keep  his  own  company  to  himself  without  offence, 
perhaps.  In  a  man  hke  you,  reserve  is  proof  positive 
of  pride,  arrogance,  and  incivisme.  He  may  at  any 
time  be  ostracized  or  guillotined  for  it,  at  a  moment's 
warning,  on  the  slightest  provocation,  and  without  the 
slightest  interference  in  his  behalf  from  the  uncon- 
cerned bystanders.  '  Hurra,  you  ain't  got  no  friends !' 
as  the  mob  remarked,  though  happily  without  founda- 
tion, in  the  case  of  Mr.  Pickwick  in  the  pound.  If 
Mr,  Pickwick,  like  some  wise  persons  I  could  name, 
had  kept  himself  closeted  with  the  cold  remains  of  Ho 
mer,  Sophocles,  Demosthenes,  or  some  other  dead  an- 
cient, and  relied  on  no  other  means  of  attaching  to 
himself  live  moderns  than  privately  wishing  them  well, 


210  HERMAN. 

and  letting  them  alone,  he  would  have  had  no  friends ; 
and  then  the  shower  of  eggs  and  turnips  might  have 
lasted  till  this  time,  or  until  the  hen-coops  and  green- 
grocers' shops  were  exhausted,  for  aught  that  Messrs. 
Wardle,  Winkle,  and  Company,  would  have  cared. 
Anybody  who  liked, — a  good  many  always  do  like  on 
these  occasions, — would  have  pelted  him.  Who  would 
have  protected  him  ?" 

"  I  see.  It  is  half  my  own  fault,  or  folly.  Edward, 
how  came  you  to  be  so  wise  ?" 

"  By  doing  nothing,  my  dear  boy, — an  invaluable 
practice  ;  it  gives  one  so  much  time  for  thinking  !" 

"  You  have  been  studying  human  nature, — one  side 
of  it  at  least, — while  I  have  been  poring  over  my  books. 
Your  knowledge  is  more  practical  than  most  of  mine, 
and  fresher ;  but  are  all  its  lessons  so  gloomy  as  this 
which  you  have  been  giving  to  me  ?" 

"  The  gloom,  if  there  is  any,  is  in  your  own  dark 
eyes.  Mine  are  lighter.  I  regard  life  as  a  book  of 
satire,  illustrated  with  very  amusing  caricatures  ;  or  at 
the  worst,  it  is  only  a  black  background,  against  which 
a  parti-colored  and  not  altogether  sooty  character, — 
like  mine,  I  flatter  myself, — appears  to  advantage,  ra- 
diant by  contrast.  I  should  look  gloomy  myself,  I  fear, 
in  the  light  in  which  you  walk,  star-trampling  reformer. 
The  world  is  dark,  you  may  say  ;  it  eclipses  the  sun 
almost  half  of  tlie  time.  What  if  it  does  ?  I  avail 
myself  of  a  lucifer^  touch  up  my  gas,  dress  for  a  ball  or 
the  theatre,  go  out,  and  enjoy  the  night.  The  night  is 
a  very  good  thing,  after  all.  It  serves  me  to  laugh, 
and  you  to  learn,  in.  If  I  had  to  choose  between  the 
two,  all  of  one  or  all  of  the  other,  I  should  prefer  the 
earth  to  the  sun,  I  believe.  I  do  not  want  too  much 
light." 


THE     KNIGHT    FASTS.  211 

"  You  are  in  the  clouds  now.  Come  down  where  I 
can  understand  you." 

"  Understand,  then,  with  regard  to  yourself,  that  I 
suspect  you  are  merely  beginning  to  see  the  world  as 
it  is,  instead  of  as  it  ought  to  be ;  whence  arises  at  first 
an  unpleasant  surprise  in  your  youthful  mind,  at  not 
finding  it  heaven.  Men  get  their  bodily  eyes  open 
earlier  than  kittens  do  ;  but  it  takes  the  cleverest  of  us 
more  than  your  twenty-oue  years  to  do  the  same  by 
our  mental  optics,  and  to  learn  to  see  things  for  our- 
selves with  them  exactly  as  they  are.  Furthermore,  I 
think  you  made  a  great  mistake  in  going  off  to  the 
West  just  when  you  did.  Run  before  geese,  and,  of 
course,  they  will  pursue  you  with  hisses ;  because  they 
are  geese." 

"  But  I  did  not  run  away  for  fear  of  the  geese. 
I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing." 

"  I  know  that,  of  course  ;  but  how  are  geese  to 
know  it  ?  But  let  by-gones  be  by-gones.  You  have 
come  back  again,  at  any  rate.  Go  out  now,  whenever 
and  wherever  you're  invited;  and  let  people  see  that 
you're  neither  afraid  of  them  nor  ashamed  of  yourself. 
Let  them  cry  for  about  the  space  of  two  hours,  months, 
or  years,  Great  are  Mammon,  Daniel,  and  his  '  Tay- 
riff,'  gods  of  the  Bostonians !  They'll  get  hoarse  after  a 
while,  and  then  stop.  You're  only  a  nine  days'  won- 
der. They'll  soon  want  the  pillory  for  somebody  else. 
Remember  however,  that  I  am  arguing  upon  your  sup- 
position, and  not  by  any  means  on  my  own  perception, 
of  your  personal  unpopularity.  I  suspect  it  exists 
chiefly,  if  not  wholly,  in  your  own  poetical  fancy." 

This  was  the  last  as  well  as  the  first  conversation, 
which  the  young  men  held  together  upon  this  subject ; 
for,  Edward's  conscience  pricking  him  a  little  at  the 


212  HEKMAN. 

close,  he  presently  with  some  heat  and  abruptness  an- 
nounced an  intention  on  his  part,  to  "  kick,  no  matter 
where,  in  Beacon  Street  or  on  'Change,  or  anywhere 
else,  anybody,  no  matter  who,"  whom  he  caught  "  giv- 
ing himself  any  such  airs ;"  and,  as  Herman  thought 
that  his  little  French  boots  might  be  much  better  em- 
ployed, he  said  nothing  further. 

Edward  was,  indeed,  triply  perturbed.  He  saw,  so 
far  as  he  would  open  his  eyes  to  see,  that  there  was 
much  reason  for  his  brother's  endeavouring  to  rouse  the 
country  to  take  the  stand  he  aimed  at  against,  not  the 
South,  but  a  few  of  the  Southerners.  He  was,  with  all 
his  frivolity,  no  wilful  perverter  of  youth  in  general ; 
and  as  to  Herman  in  particular,  in  his  secret  heart  he 
admired  and  revered  him  to  such  a  degree,  that  not 
only  was  he  confident  that  it  would  be  in  vain  to  try 
to  bring  him  down  from  his  elevation,  but  he  would 
have  felt  himself  as  sacrilegious  in  doing  so,  if  he  could, 
as  the  horror-struck  sportsman,  who,  when  the  wide- 
winged,  round-eyed  owl  tumbled  out  of  the  tree  before 
him  in  the  twilight,  shrieked  in  agonies  of  ineffectual 
remorse  that  he  had  "  shot  a  cherubim."  Yet  he  was 
too  epicurean  to  place  himself  at  his  young  brother's 
side  in  the  battle.  No  wonder,  therefore,  if  he  felt 
somewhat  cross ;  he  certainly  had  enough  to  make 
him. 

What  advice  he  had  given  was  good  ;  and  Herman 
resolutely  followed  it,  so  far  at  least  as  to  go  out  and 
show  himself  wherever  he  was  invited.  His  manner 
became  more  formed,  manly,  and  imposing ;  and  thus, 
though  not  undignified  before,  gained  in  dignity  more 
than  it  had  lost  in  cordiality  and  vivacity.  His  hon- 
est innate,but  hitherto  latent,  pride,  (if  we  must  call  an 
unchristened  and  not  altogether  unvirtuous  trait  by  the 


THE     KN'TGHT     FASTS.  213 

nnnie  of  a  vice,)  defensive,  not  offensive,  being  called 
forth  to  repress  the  insolence  of  others,  ennobled  his 
noble  countenance  more  and  more,  and  heightened  the 
'•  Coriolanns  look  "  which  Edward  admired  so  highly, 
— so  highly,  that  he  insisted  on  having  the  picture,  a 
description  of  which  serves  as  a  sort  of  frontispiece  to 
this  chapter,  taken  for  him  by  a  certain  justlj-cele- 
brated  artist,  in  Herman's  twenty-third  year. 

Dr.  Arden  was  not  alone  in  his  admiration.  The  young 
helles,  too,  appreciated  the  young  orator's  personal  ad- 
vantages and  graces,  and,  caring  much  more  about 
partners  than  politics,  would  have  elected  him  one  of 
the  reigning  heaux  of  the  time,  if  he  had  pleased. 
Their  charais,  however,  served  only  to  remind  him  of 
others  to  him  far  more  charming,  and  to  make  his  con- 
stant heart  grieve  the  more  for  his  Constance.  In 
spite  of  Clara's  remonstrances,  therefore,  he  was  too 
often  to  be  seen  standing  alone  before  statues,  pictures, 
or  flowers,  or  in  corners,  looking  very  handsome,  pic- 
turesque, abstracted,  and,  as  she  declared,  "  Byronic," 
and  remembering  his  social  duties  only  now  and 
then,  when  he  beheld  some  plain  damsel  or  noteless 
dame  in  distress,  and,  constituting  hiujself  a  volunteei 
member  of  the  Humane  Society,  pressed  forward  to  her 
relief,  walked  a  quadrilU  with  her,  fed  her,  or  found 
her  coach  for  her,  according  to  her  need. 

How  •'  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable,"  did  the 
scenes  of  gayety,  so-called,  appear  to  his  saddened  eyes 
bedimmed  with  cataracts  of  tears  unshed.  He  stood 
among  them  alone  in  spirit,  often  wondering  sadly  by 
himself  what  others  found  there  to  make  them  all  so 
merry.  Often  and  often  while  people  at  his  side  were 
telling  one  another,  in  apparent  ecstasy,  "  How  de- 
lightful I"  it  all  was,  he  could  have  found  it  in  his 


214:  HEKMAN. 

heart  to  groan,  "  Lover  and  friend  thou  hast  taken 
from  me !" 

At  these  times,  it  was  hardest  for  him  to  forget  how, 
one  short  year  before, — indiiferent  as  he  was  in  gen- 
eral to  what  is  generally  termed  society, — an  in  vitation 
to  any  entertainment  where  Constance  might  be,  had 
been  to  him  as  a  tioivet  of  admission  to  Paradise  ;  how 
he  had  thought  of  it  by  day  and  dreamed  of  it  by 
night,  with  more  and  more  rapture,  hour  by  hour,  as 
the  appointed  time  for  it  drew  nearer;  how  he  had 
hurried  to  it  and  arrived  at  it,  in  spite  of  all  his  reso- 
lutions, the  earliest  of  all  the  guests  ;  how  the  whole 
house  had  seemed  lighted  up  with  her  coming  pres- 
ence far  more  than  with  gas  or  chandelier  ;  and,  then, 
how  she  had  slowly,  grandly,  entered  and  smiled  on 
him,  and  glorified  the  place. 

In  his  vacuity  and  ennui,  he  for  the  first  time 
found  out,  by  contrast,  how  very  happy  he  had  been 
while  he  had  fancied  himself  merely  looking  forward 
to  happiness,  in  his  fulness  of  hope.  Fulness  of  frui- 
tion, the  infinite  soul  of  man  is  scarcely  intended  to 
find  upon  this  finite  earth.  Half  the  happiness  in 
which  sanguine  Youth  is  so  rich,  is  raised  by  a  mort- 
gage which  Hope  takes  on  the  expected  and  usually 
much  over-rated  happiness  of  Manhood.  Manhood, 
hence,  often  finds  himself  a  bankrupt  therein.  Hope 
but  lately  had  been  promising  Herman  successful  love, 
fame,  and  that  he  should  soon  greatly  and  acceptably 
serve  his  country.  His  love, — no  matter  !  His  patriot- 
ism had  called  down  upon  him  the  reproach  of  treason 
to  his  country.  His  eloquence  was  already  becoming 
famous  ;  but  its  efiects  were  accounted  his  infamy  ; 
and  he  read  each  of  its  successive  triumphs  chiefly  in 
the  averted  eyes  and  deeper  darkening  round  him  of 


THE     K^aGHT     FASTS.  216 

the  ''  old  familiar  faces."  If  his  brother  and  sister 
could  have  guessed  half  of  the  almost  girlish  suffering 
on  these  occasions  of  the  still  too  soft  and  sensitive 
heart,  which  the  disappointed,  wronged,  and  slandered 
young  lover  and  patriot  hid  so  bravely  under  his  com- 
posed and  commanding  exterior,  they  would  have 
spared  him,  and  entreated  him  to  spare  himself  It 
was  quite  as  well  for  him,  therefore,  that  they  could 
not. 

Let  no  one  ask  for  greatness,  who  is  not  ready  to 
endure  great  agonies.  Groans,  self-stifled,  are  the  na- 
tive air  of  Manhood  and  Heroism, — harsh,  but  whole- 
some, like  the  biting,  bracing  northwest  wind.  When 
the  wind  sets  in  that  quarter,  oh  man,  if  you  be  a  man, 
and  if  the  errand  which  calls  you  out  to  face  it  be  a 
good  one,  set  your  teeth,  breast  it,  and  breathe  it.  If 
you  were  puny,  cold-blooded,  and  sluggish,  it  might 
chill  you,  and  kill  you ;  but,  being  strong  and  active, 
it  will  make  you  only  the  stronger.  By  and  by  it  will 
cease,  and  you  will  glow  after  it,  as  with  a  generous 
fire  in  your  veins.  Let  this  smooth, round  world  be- 
times show  you  the  hollow  inside  of  it.  You  will  be 
the  less  likely  to  attribute  too  much  weight  to  it  here- 
after.— It  is  an  ugly  sight ;  and  you  may  feel  for  years 
afterwards  as  if  the  ground  was  mined  beneath  your 
feet.  What  of  that,  if  it  leads  you  to  make  the  greater 
haste  to  plant  them  firmly  on  the  Eock  of  Ages  ? 
For  years  afterwards,  you  may  feel  as  if  there  was  no 
earthly  stay  that  might  not  in  a  moment,  without  a 
moment's  warning,  give  way  and  crumble  from  you. 
Your  insecurity  will  be  your  safety,  if  it  drives  you  to 
cling  to  the  Cross. 

Further  :  average  undisciplined  human  nature  h  a 
looking-glass  for  average  undisciplined  human  nature. 


216  HERMAN. 

Jnst  as  yonr  neighbours  are  treating  yon,  yon  in  their 
place,  mortifying  as  it  is  to  acknowledge  it,  wonld  pro- 
babty  have  treated  them  in  yours.  Unless  you  are 
very  disinterested  or  very  shamefully  sellish,  you 
would  rather  of  the  two,  that  they  should  show  you 
how  such  conduct  looks  in  them,  than  that  they  should 
see  how  it  looked  in  you. — They  are  treating  you  as 
you  in  their  place  would  probably  have  treated  them, 
without  this  lesson,  but  as,  after  this  lesson,  you  can 
never  henceforward  treat  any  honest  man.  After 
this  lesson,  you  can  never  assist  in  thus  laying  under  the 
ban  any  person  who  may,  for  aught  you  know,  be 
acting  faithfully  and  uprightly  upon  perfectly  consci- 
entious convictions,  however  they  may  differ  from 
your  own  convictions  conscientiously  and  cautiously 
arrived  at,  or  your  opinions  hastily  and  ignorantly 
taken  up. 

Furthermore, — my  reader,  if  you  are  old,  you  may 
know  the  truth  of  what  I  am  about  to  say  even  better 
than  I  do ;  but — if  you  are  young,  and  your  youth  is 
innocently  joyous,  rejoice  in  your  youth,  and  thank 
God  that  you  can  ;  and,  if  it  is  troubled  and  its  trou- 
bles are  of  your  own  foolish  making,  the  best  counsel 
that  can  be  given  you  is,  to  unmake  them  again  as  fast 
as  you  may.  But  if  it  is  not  so, — if,  honestly  desiring 
to  be  happy,  you  cannot  find  the  way, — if  you  are  al- 
ready discovering,  like  Herman,  that  your  youth,  which 
your  childhood  falsely  fancied  to  be  a  pleasure-ground, 
is  in  reality  doomed  to  be  a  school,  and  a  harder  one 
than  your  childhood  ever  entered, — if  you  feel  it  as 
bitter  irony  when  those,  who  are  old  enough  to  know 
better,  congratulate  you  in  poetry  or  prose  upon  your 
youth  as  such,  and    nform  you  that,  by  reason  of  it, 


THE     KXIGHT     FASTS.  217 

you  must  needs  be  mvsteriouslj  and  incomparably 
happy,  and  see  everything  about  you  flushed  with  the 
magic,  rosy  hues  of  joy  and  hope, — if,  while  your  con- 
temporaries seem  to  prove  such  sapient  sayings  true, 
by  rejoicings  which  you  can  hardly  understand,  and 
know  not  how  to  share,  you  feel  yourself  lonely  and 
left  out, — if  the  world  cannot  satisfy  you  while  you 
do  not  yet  find  in  yourself  the  strength  to  reach  hea- 
ven, then  take  heed  to  yourself.  Much  is  given  to 
you, — much  discipline,  much  opportunity  of  winning 
through  that  discipline  much  good  to  yourself,  per- 
haps to  your  fellow-beings  ; — much  is  probably  to  be 
required  of  you. 

Take  courage.  Be  you  sure  of  this  :  God  has  some 
good  gift  in  His  hand  for  every  one  of  His  faith- 
ful servants.  If  your  turn  to  receive  yours  has  not 
yet  come,  by  no  means  go  away  from  Him,  nor  mur- 
mur, but  wait  patiently  and  trustfully  till  it  does. 
Many  a  garden  that,  under  a  cold  sky,  has  no  straw- 
berries in  June,  will  have  peaches  in  August,  or  grapes 
in  October.  •  Watch  and  pray.  Have  fortitude  and 
faith.  Earthen-ware  and  glass  are  handled  gingerly. 
Gold  and  diamonds  are  rubbed  hard  and  sharply  cut, 
to  make  them  shine.  Xeither  the  glass  nor  the  dia- 
mond knows  why.  He  who  has  you  in  hand  knows 
best  how  you  ought  to  be  treated,  in  order  to  make  the 
most  of  you.  A  youth  of  struggles  is  the  not  uncom- 
mon prelude  to  a  manhood  of  power.  Wrestle  with 
the  adversary  in  what  form  soever  he  comes,  in  the 
name  of  the  Lord.  Conquer  a  peace.  Wrestling 
will  make  you  strong.  From  your  fasts  and  vigils 
and  seemingly-unheard  prayers,  you  may  yet  be  led 
forth  at  length,  a  mighty  and  thrice-bleseed  champion 


10 


218  HERMAN. 

before  God  and  man,  with  a  voice  as  of  an  angel  say- 
ing in  your  ears,  "  When  first  thy  prayer  went  forth, 
I  was  sent  towards  thee ;"  or  if  it  be  not  before  God 
and  man  that  you  are  led  forth,  but  before  God  and  His 
angels  only,  to  some  service  that,  like  the  kingdom 
of  God,  "  Cometh  not  with  observation,"  does  the 
soldier  wlio  fights  victoriously  before  the  King  and 
His  lords,  afflict  himself  because  there  are  no  peasants 
to  look  on  ? 


THE    LADY'S    PlilVlLEGE.  211^ 


CHAPTEU   X. 

THE     LADY'S     PRIVILEGE. 

"  She  spoke  with  passion,  after  pause,   '  And  were  it  ^^isely  done, 
If  we,  wlio  cannot  gaze  above,  should  walk  the  earth  alone  ? 
If  we,  whose  virtue  is  so  weak,  should  have  a  will  so  strong, 
And  stand  bjind  on  the  rocks,  to  choose  the  right  path  from  the 

wrong  ? 
Ay  sooth,  we  feel  too  strong  in  weal  to  need  thee  on  that  road. 
But  woe  being  come,  the  soul  is  dumb  that  crieth  not  on  God." 
The  Lay  of  the  Bkown  Rosary. 

Const  AXCE,  in  the  mean  while,  had  been  beginning 
to  find  out,  to  her  utter  dismay,  how  fearfully  she  had 
trifled  with  her  happiness. 

Fancy  and  Chance  combine  to  cheat  many  and 
many  a  girl  who  sits  in  a  drawing-room,  as  a  fortune- 
teller cheats  a  girl  who  stands  in  a  kitchen.  The  for- 
tune-teller says  in  the  kitchen,,  ''  On  such  a  day,  in 
such  a  street,  you  shall  meet  a  nobleman,  who  does  not 
yet  know  his  parentage.  He  will  oifer  himself  to  you. 
You  shall  marry  him,  after  which  all  w^ill  be  revealed. 
You  may  know  him  by  his  wearing  two  roses,  one 
white  one  and  one  red  one,  at  his  button-hole." 

In  due  time,  she  sends  forth  a  neighbouring  grocer, 
enamoured  of  the  maiden,  with  the  decoration  specified  ; 
and  the  girl,  beholding,  says  to  herself,  "  There  are  the 
roses  !     Here  is  the  nobleman." 

Fancy, in  like  manner,  foretells  in  the  dravving-room, 
to  the  maiden  who  sits  there,  "  You  shall  soon  meet  a 
man,  handsome  and  rich,  [usually,  but  with  variations 


220  HERMAN. 

to  suit  the  taste  of  various  iiiaidens,]  kind  and  excel- 
lent, llini  you  shall  marry  ;  and  he  shall  prove  to  be 
all  that  your  heart  can  desire." 

Chance  puts  in  the  damsel's  way  a  rich  and  hand- 
some suitor ;  and,  seeing  the  wealth  and  the  beauty, 
the  damsel  confidently  says  to  herself,  "  There  are  the 
wealth  and  the  beauty ;  here  are  the  kindness  and  the 
excellence !" 

As  we  have  seen,  the  red  roses  by  which  Constance 
had  been  expecting  to  recognise  her  mate  were  genius 
and  heroism.  He  had  them,  sure  enough ;  but  thej 
were  out  of  her  sight,  snugly  buttoned  up  in  his  bo- 
som ;  and  thus  it  happened,  that  when  her  heart  knew 
him,  and,  like  a  spiritual  table,  softly  rapped  and 
tapped,  "  This  is  certainly  he  !"  her  brain,  not  always 
the  truest  part  of  a  mortal,  doubted,  and  she  was 
wholly  unprepared  for  the  unaccountable  pain  which 
she  felt  in  turning  from  him.  She  thought  that  it 
would  and  must  soon  cease ;  but,  as  sometimes  when  a 
nerve  has  been  wounded,  the  pain  only  grew  and 
grew. 

Under  the  influence  of  one  of  those  almost  irresisti- 
ble, and  perhaps  inexplicable  unless  demoniac,  impulses, 
such  as  make  a  child  in  a  passion  tear  up  its  garden 
or  dash  in  pieces  its  favorite  playthings,  in  spite  of  a 
lurking  suspicion  that  it  is  pretty  sure  to  be  very  sorry 
afterwards,  she  had  hurried  through  the  complete 
breaking  off  of  their  intercourse.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yan 
Rooselandt,  who  had  already  stayed  at  the  Eevere  a 
week  longer  than  they  intended,  for  her  pleasure,  wil- 
lingly left  Boston  with  her  as  soon  as  their  trunks 
could  be  packed,  and,  within  a  week  after  their  return 
to  New  York,  provided  her  with  a  safe  escort  to  Bal- 
timore. 


THE     LADY  S     PKIYILEGE.  221 

A  slight  feverish  attack  followed  close  upon  the 
fatigue  and  excitement  of  the  time,  and  served  farther 
to  confuse  her  recollections  of  her  parting  interview 
with  her  lover.  Even  if  she  liad  been  willing  to  return 
to  it,  dwell  upon  it,  and  consider  in  cool  blood  her  own 
part  in  it,  she  would  from  the  very  first  have  had  much 
difficulty  in  recalling  it  with  any  distinctness ;  and 
weeks  and  months  passed,  further  effacing  the  record, 
before  she  was  willing.  She  could  not,  when  at  last 
she  tried  to  do  so,  recollect  how  decided  and  harsh  her 
rejection  of  Herman  had  been,  nor  how  impossible  she 
had  made  it  for  him  to  renew  his  suit.  Accustomed 
as  she  had  been  to  unbounded  servility  on  the  part  of 
her  declared  admirers,  his  silence  at  times  appeared  to 
her  irritated  and  self-torturing  pride  a  proof  that  the 
renunciation  had  been  as  much  his  as  hers ;  and  it  was 
gall  and  worm  wood  to  her  to  be  forced  by  suffering 
to  acknowledge  to  herself,  that  she  could  suffer  for  the 
sake  of  one  not  only,  as  she  thought,  unworthy  of  her, 
but  indifferent  to  her. 

"  Why,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  ''  did  Xature 
make  me  no  Btrono;er  or  no  weaker  ? — stronor  enouo:h  to 
renounce  him,  too  weak  to  fors^et  ? — strono^  enousrh  to 
transffx  my  own  heart,  too  weak  to  draw  the  weapon 
out  again?" 

For  some  time  after  her  recovery,  in  other  respects, 
from  her  illness,  her  loss  of  color,  appetite,  and  spirits, 
continued  so  apparent,  that  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Eonaldson 
of  Baltimore,  at  wdiose  house  she  was,  became  quite 
distressed  and  alarmed  about  her.  She  conferred  with 
the  physician,  who  had  attended  her  niece.  He  only 
laughed,  shook  his  head,  and  declared  that  he  "  could 
discover  no  vestige  of  a  sick-room  obstacle  to  her  being 
as  fat  and  rosy   as  any  dairy-maid ;   but  that  hellei 


222  H  KRMAN. 

would  sometimes  have  their  ball-room  difficulties;  and 
those  an  old  pill-porter  like  himself  could  hardly  he 
expected  to  understand  or  alleviate." 

Mrs.  Ronaldson  was  a  most  tender  and  warm- 
hearted woman,  and  would  gladly  have  done  for  Con- 
stance anything  that  sympathy  and  kindness  could  do, 
if  she  could  only  have  found  out  what  to  do,  or  what 
the  matter  was.  She  dared  not  question  the  repellant 
sufferer ;  but  she  ventured  to  write  a  pleasant  note  to 
Mrs.  Yan  Eooselandt,  begging  she  would  tell  her 
whether  Constance  had  made  any  conquests  while 
under  her  care ;  as  she  [Mrs.  Konaldson]  naturally 
felt  great  interest  in  her  successes  ;  and  as  that  young 
lady  was  always  too  modest  to  give  any  account  of 
them  herself. 

Mrs.  Yan  Hooselandt  deposed,  by  return  of  post, 
that  Miss  Aspenwall  was  rather  quiet  and  domestic 
while  in  Boston,  and  apparently  little  interested  in 
general  society.  She  became  well  acquainted  there 
with  a  very  agreeable  family  of  unmarried  orphans, 
named  Arden,  and  passed  much  of  her  time  with  them 
en  famille.  But  the  eldest  of  the  two  brothers,  though 
the  finest  young  man  in  the  world,  was  a  confirmed 
bachelor,  whom  no  one  would  think  any  more  likely 
to  marry  than  the  man  in  the  moon,  and  a  little  too 
unromantic  and  given  to  raillery  and  satire,  too,  she 
thought,  to  be  likely  to  suit  Miss  Aspen  wall's  taste ; 
and  the  younger,  Mr.  Herman  Arden,  was  not  onl}'' 
still  quite  a  boy,  but  had  behaved  very  sadly  and  dis- 
graced himself  at  some  place  of  public  entertainment, 
she  regretted  to  hear,  just  before  they  left  Boston. 
She  could  not  tell  precisely  how  it  was,  for  she  was 
very  much  occupied  in  looking  at  some  exquisite  point- 
laces,  at  Mudge's,  when  she  heard  some  ladies  speak- 


THE    KNIGHT    FASTS.  223 

ing  of  it;  but  she  was  really  very  sorry  that  anytliiiig 
of  the  sort  should  have  happened ;  for  he  was  a  gen- 
teel, pretty  little  youth,  and  very  attentive  to  herself, 
and  had  always,  in  her  presence,  conducted  himself  in 
a  perfectly  gentlemanly  manner.  She  thought  Miss 
Arden  must  have  been  the  chief  attraction  to  her 
charge.  In  tact,  if  she  was  called  upon  to  tell  the 
whole  truth,  she  feared  that  Miss  Aspenwall  was  her- 
self too  little  impressible  to  give  any  man  the  least  en- 
couragement to  fall  in  love  with  her,  though  no  doubt 
she  could  not  fail  to  be  universally  admired  wherever 
she  went.  The  few  young  men,  who  were  worth  hav- 
ing, were  all  so  spoiled  in  these  flirting  days  I  They 
expected  the  young  ladies  to  meet  them  at  least  a 
quarter  of  the  way  !  It  was  a  pity  ;  but  she  did  not 
know  what  could  be  done  for  so  very  dignitied  a  per- 
son as  their  young  friend,  unless  they  could  induce  Sir 
Charles  Grandison  or  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  to  come  to 
life  for  her  benefit. 

(Whisper  from  behind  the  scenes :  Mrs.  Yan  Eoose- 
landt  had  developed  a  fine  natural  talent  for  match- 
making in  the  way  of  her  duty,  in  successively  and 
successfully  disposing  of  six  daughters  of  her  own  to 
six  sons,  —  simpletons,  ignoramuses,  horse-jockeys,  and 
others, — of  men  of  fortune."^  Like  tlie  celebrated 
British  surgeon,  who,  after  he  retired  from  business, 
used  to  ride  down  to  town  now  and  then,  and  cut  ofi'  a 
leg  or  an   arm   or  two  by  way  of  amusement,  this  tri- 


*  It  may  be  as  well  explicitly  to  state  here,  in  order  to  a^'oid  nil 
possible  risk  of  misconstruction,  that  men  of  fortune  sometimes  have 
sons  of  irenuine  merit.  Some  of  the  sons-in-law  of  Mrs.  Van  Roose- 
landt,  for  instance,  had  brothers  who  were  tine  fellows.  But  these 
tine  fellows  w-ere  not  for  the  Misses  Yan  Rooselandt.  Their  devoted 
parent  did  the  best  she  could  for  them.  Who  could  do  more  ?  One 
must  not  mind  trifles  in  so  important  a  matter  as  matrimony. 


224  HERMAN. 

umphant  lady,  instead  of  resting  lazily  beneath  her 
laurels,  now  took  a  disinterested  pride  and  pleasure  in 
acting  as  show -woman  to  any  beauty,  heiress,  or 
stylish  girl  "  of  family,"  so-called,  whom  she  could 
catch,  and  in  speedily  making  her  over  to  somebody 
who  had  a  fine  gilded  cage  to  put  her  into.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  she  had  now  had  a  peerless  beauty 
and  respectable  heiress,  in  one  individual,  in  her  hands 
for  the  greater  part  of  three  months,  utterly  in  vain. 
With  this  most  remarkable  bait  on  her  experienced 
hook,  and  with  as  fine  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  were 
caught,  she  had  not  only  caught  nothing  except  a  Tar- 
tar^ but  had  not  even  to  her  knowledge  had  so  much  as 
a  nibble.  She  may  therefore  be  excused  if,  though  as 
usual  in  the  most  gracious  state  of  mind  towards  the 
fashionable  world  in  general, — Mrs.  Konaldson  included, 
— she  was  doubly  "iniffy  where  Mrs.  Eonaldson's  niece 
was  concerned ;  first,  because  Constance  had  given  her- 
self airs  towards  her  ;  secondly,  because  Constance  had 
given  herself  airs  towards  other  people.  She  might 
have  found  it  hard  enough  to  pardon  Constance's  dig- 
nity. Anybody  in  her  situation  might  have  found  it 
hard  enough  to  pardon  Constance's  haughtiness,  which, 
if  the  latter  had  been  ten  years  younger,  would  have 
been  called  by  its  proper  name,  naughtiness.) 

Thus,  then,  Mrs.  Ronaldson's  compassion  was  left  in 
the  dark.  Acting  on  the  scanty  hint  of  the  doctor,  how 
ever,  in  the  spirit  of  the  undoubted  originator  of  homoe- 
opathy,— the  wise  man,  in  the  fine  old  English  ballad, 
who,  having  "jumped  into  a  bramble -bush  and 
scratched  out  both  his  eyes,"  on  perceiving  his  loss,  at 
once,  with  a  presence  of  mind  and  resource  never  to  be 
too  much  commended  nor  faithfully  imitated,  and 
*'  with   all   his  might  and  main,  jumped  into  another 


225 

bush  and  scratched  them  in  again," — she  argued  that 
wliat  a  ball  might  cause,  a  ball  might  cure,  and  gave 
her  niece  one  immediately,  at  a  venture,  as  a  farrier 
might  a  bolus  to  an  indisposed  cow.  Greatly  to  her 
satisfaction,  her  patient  seemed  not  ill-disposed  to  her 
remedy ;  and  from  that  time  the  good,  simple-hearted 
matron, — a  Roman  Catholic,  and  at  heart  a  devotee, — 
was  indefatigable  in  going  out  and  inviting  in,  making 
parties  for  the  theatre  and  the  opera,  and  accom- 
panying Constance  to  see  every  sight  and  hear  every 
sound,  which  she  thought  could  possibly  give  her 
pleasure. 

Constance  seemed  eager  for  every  novelty  or  ex- 
citement offered  her  ;  and  if,  after  trying  each,  she 
always  parried  every  chance  inquiry  as  to  whether 
she  had  enjoyed  herself,  she  was  prepared,  and  an- 
swered so  adroitly,  that  her  evasions  passed  unnoticed. 
Her  aunt's  anxieties,  therefore,  were  soon  at  rest.  If 
the  young  beauty  had  ever  really  had  anything  resting 
upon  her  mind,  it  must,  she  thought,  have  been  some 
mere  girlish  trifle,  and  have  blown  away  before  she 
could  take  such  interest  in  gaieties ;  and  the  late  hours 
which  Constance  now  kept  were  quite  sufficient  to  ex- 
plain her  continuing  somewhat  pale,  and  sometimes 
appearing  at  her  light  breakfast  with  swollen  eyes. 
Tiius  she  had  her  own  way,  and  her  grief  to  herself,  to 
the  full. 

Her  nature  had  its  very  good  side  ;  though  hitherto 
we  have  been  seeing  only  the  bad  ;  partly  because  she 
was  showing  it  particularly  at  the  time  when  our  story 
begins,  and  partly  because,  in  spite  of  our  own  (^Ir. 
Foxton's  and  his  readers')  unusual  sweetness  of  dispo- 
sition, we  could  not  help, — all  of  us,  iSTorth,  South, 
East,  and  West, — being  a  good  deal  out  of  patience 
10* 


226  HERMAN. 

with  her  for  her  suicidal  folly,  and  her  ill-treatment  of 
our  hero.  A  soul,  higher  and  deeper  than  she  knew, 
had  lain  slumbering  and  wasting  within  her  ;  and  now, 
at  the  voice  of  her  first  womanly  sorrow,  it  woke  up, 
lifted  its  hollow  eyes,  and  cried  day  and  night  within 
her,  with  a  dreary  cry,  which  her  compressed  imperial 
lips  would  not  yet  suffer  to  pass  through  them,  "  I  am 
hungry !  I  am  hungry !"  And  when  she  would  have  fed  it 
with  the  best  shehad, — luxury,  admiration,  dissipation, — 
and  it  rejected  them  all,  she  looked  into  her  world,  and  it 
was  empty ;  while  the  cry  arose  again  yet  louder  and 
more  drearily,  until  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  should  go 
mad,  "  I  am  hungry  !  I  am  hungry,  hungry,  hungry ! 
Feed  me,  or  I  shall  die  !  I  am  hungry,  oh,  my  God  !'■ 
And  He  who  giveth  food  to  the  beasts  and' the  young 
ravens  which  cry,  we  may  believe,  did  not  disregard  the 
doleful  and  desperate  voice,  even  though  uj^lifted  in  re- 
pining misery  rather  than  in  supplication,  for  the  poor 
wasted  soul  was  fed  with  such  nourishment  as  it  would 
receive,  if  not  at  first  with  a  rich  and  plenteous  meal. 
Wise  human  beings  do  not  treat  the  starving  so  ;  and 
the  prodigal  son  must  often  stoop  to  eat  his  husks,  be- 
fore he  makes  his  way  home  to  the  full  feast  of  wel- 
come and  the  fatted  calf. 


THE    AKMOKY.  227 


CHAPTER    XI, 

THE     ARMORY. 

"You  think  justly,  feel  rightly, — yes.  but  your  work.  Produce  it 
Men  of  wealth,  men  of  talent,  men  of  leisure,  what  are  you  doing  in 
God's  world  for  God  ?"  F.  W.  Robertson. 

"And  long  it  was  not  after,  when  I  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion: 
that  he  wh(.  would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well  heredfter 
in  laudable  things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem;  that  is,  a  com- 
position and  pattern  of  the  best  and  honorablest  things,— not  presu- 
ming to  sing  high  praises  of  heroic  men,  *  *  *  unless  he  have  in 
himself"  the  experience  and  practice  of  all  that  which  is  praiseworthy." 

Milton. 

To  LIVE  is  a  verb  which  implies  to  do,  as  well  as  to 
be  and  to  snffer.  What  was  Herman  doing  all  this 
time  ?  Nothing  bnt  making  speeches,  when  nobody, 
in  polite  parlance,  wanted  to  hear  him,  and  going  to 
parties  where  nobody  wanted  to  see  him  ?  A  little. 
Perhaps  we  may  get  an  inkling  of  the  nature  of  his 
other  occupations,  by  placing  ourselves  in  imagination 
at  the  key-hole  of  the  door  of  Clara's  dining-room, — 
if  we  can,  in  doing  so,  escape  the  detection  of  the  unim- 
aginative Patrick,  the  sentinel  spirit  who  haunts  the 
passage, — and  by  overhearing  one  or  two  conversations 
therein. 

Not  long  after  Herman's  return  to  Boston,  Clara, 
having  been  caught  out  in  a  shower  in  a  cold  Novem- 
ber afternoon,  sat  drying  her  little  boots  at  a  cozy  little 
fire  in  the  grate  of  the  cheerful  apartment  above-men- 
tioned. Through  the  open  door,  she  had  a  vision  of 
Herman   driving  before  him,  from  the  library  to  his 


2^8 


HERMAN. 


chamber,  a  Guminage,  loaded  to  the  chin  with  boolp, 
whicli  Herman  was  guarding  from  a  fall,  with  his 
wary  arms  stretched  out  on  each  side  of  that  patient 
beast  of  burden.  Thereupon  Miss  Clara,  being  in  want 
of  a  little  society  and  chat,  called  out,  ''  What !  More 
books  ?  Do  you  think  there  is  any  more  room  left  in 
your  head  ?" 

"  Yes.  I'll  come  down  again  in  a  moment,"  said 
he,  and  vanished,  but  presently  returned,  and,  ranging 
a  second  pair  of  very  unexceptionable  boots  beside 
hers  on  the  fender,  added,  "  I  am  going  to  study  medi- 
cine." 

"  Another  j^rofession,  besides  more  arts  and  sciences 
than  I  can  count  on  my  fingers  ?  Why,  you  have  got 
one  more  than  you  know  what  to  do  with,^have  not 
you  ? — already.  I  shall  have  to  call  you  Mr.  Eichard 
Carstone." 

''  You  would  have  to  call  me  Mrs.  Pardiggle,  I  fear, 
if  I  did  not.  I  want  2.  jpied-d-tei^re  among  the  poor, — 
an  interest  in  common  with  them, — that  I  may  have 
the  right  to  enter  into  their  houses,  and  the  power  to 
enter  into  their  feelings.  It  is  their  interest  to  be  well, 
and  when  it  is  mine  to  make  them  so,  we  shall  have  a 
bond  of  sympathy  at  once." 

"  But  if  you  want  another  profession  in  order  to  do 
good,  why  not  be  a  clergyman  ?" 

"  Frankly,  in  the  first  place,  because  I  should  not 
like  it ;  in  the  second,  because,  not  liking  it,  I  see  at  a 
glance  dozens  of  good  reasons  why  I  should  not  do  it. 
A  warrior,  before  he  enters  the  field,  should  take  care, 
if  a  choice  is  left  him,  to  choose  armor  that  fits  him. 
It  should  not  encumber  him^  nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
cramp  him  unnecessarily.  The  gown  is  too  large  for 
me.     It  needs  a  man  miglity,  both  morally  and  intel 


THE    AfiMORT.  229 

lectually,  if  not  physically,  too,  in  these  days,  to  fill  it 
worthily.     I  should  be  lost  in  it." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  see  why  you  should,"  said  Clara, 
who  would  have  liked  to  see  him  i*  it,  more  than  she 
ever  said ;  "  I  think  you  do  yourself  great  injustice." 

"  Well,  but  then  it  would  pinch  me  here  and 
there  intolerably.  I  want  to  be  a  man  amongst  men. 
A  clergyman  is  expected  to  be  almost  as  much  tied  up 
in  conventionalisms  as  a  woman  ;  and  other  men  treat 
him  as  they  treat  a  woman.  They  are  on  their  guard. 
They  are  ashamed  to  show  before  women  and  clergy- 
men how  they  are  not  ashamed  to  talk  and  act  before 
the  Maker  of  woujen  and  clergymen.  They  exhibit 
their  souls  to  their  pastor,  as  they  do  their  bodies, 
chiefly  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  They  seem  to  him 
excellent  and  moral  persons.  He  cannot  but  believe 
that  the  evil  reports,  which  they  are  now  and.  then  can- 
did enough  to  bring  him  about  one  another,  are  misun- 
derstandings unintentionally  exaggerated.  Then  he 
must  not  say  his  say  about  popular  and  public  sins, 
unless  his  congregation  please ;  or,  if  he  does,  he 
must  often  be  accused,—  and  he  may  often  fear  justly 
accused, — of  alienating  them  from  Eeligion  by  aliena- 
ting them  from  himself,  because  they  consider  him  the 
speaking-tube  of  Religion.  His  pocket,  too,  is  in  the 
power  of  his  principles  ;  and  this  may  lead  to  the  sus- 
picion, at  least,  that  his  principles  are  in  the  power  of 
his  pocket." 

"  But  you  are  independent." 

"  In  fortune,  yes ; — I  have  that  advantage  over 
most  of  the  clergy  ; — in  mind,  I  doubt.  We  are  all  of 
us,  except  the  very  strongest,  obliging  enough  to  take 
the  characters  that  the  opinion  of  others  assigns  us. 
For  instance,  tell  a  man  that  he  has  lost  his  temper, 


230  HERMAN. 

and  lie  generally  does  lose  his  temper.  Tell  a  girl 
that  she  blushes,  and  she  blushes.  These  are  experi- 
ments, of  course,  that  you  and  I  should  not  try ;  but 
we  have  both  of  us  probably  enjoyed  the  privilege  of 
seeing  or  feeling  them,  sooner  or  later.  Now,  society 
is  to  an  unfortunately  large  extent  agreed  that  parsons 
are  of  necessity  prigs.  Unless  they  are  men  of  much 
independence  of  mind,  that  is  enough  to  make  them 
prigs.  It  would  make  me  a  prig.  If  they  escape  the 
danger  of  priggishness,  they  are  likely  to  run  into  that 
of  boorishness  or  foppishness.  They  are  called  upon 
^  to  define  their  position '  oftener  than  the  member 
from  Bunkum.  In  short,  it  must  be  very  hard  for 
them  to  be  manly,  dignified,  genial,  simple,  and  self- 
forgetful.  Besides,  many  and  many  a  man  has  gone 
into  the  pulpit  against  his  inclination,  from  a  mistaken 
sense  of  duty  to"  that  Providence,  which  manifestly 
moulded  him  to  fill  a  difierent  niche,  who  might  have 
done  much  more  good,  or  at  all  events  less  harm,  at  a 
carpenter's  bench." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so?" 

"  I  really  do.  Many  a  one,  who  might  have  been  a 
very  worthy  Christian,  healthful,  cheerful,  and  useful, 
in  the  place  for  which  his  taste  and  nature  fitted  him, 
making  his  neighbours  like  his  motives  the  better 
because  -they  liked  him  so  well,  has  been  a  dull  and 
tedious  preacher,  making  religion  seem  a  mere  weari- 
ness ;  or,  still  worse,  a  superstitious  preacher,  helping 
to  make  the  Word  of  God  of  none  efiect  through  his 
traditions  ;  or  an  unsound,  rash,  speculating  preacher, 
infecting  parish  after  parish  with  his  own  crude  vaga- 
ries. We  are  told  that  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  like 
yeast  in  flour,  which  steals  through  it  all,  particle  by 
particle,  until  it  is  throughout,  in  every  part,  raised 


THE    ARMOEY.  231 

and  lightened.  Christianity, — so  at  least  it  appears  to 
me, — was  surely  intended  to  elevate,  quicken,  and 
hallow  the  action  of  the  human  mind,  in  all  lawful 
departments  of  its  action,  —  art,  science,  literature, 
trade,  manufactures,  &c., — not  to  drive  conscien- 
tious men  en  masse  out  of  all  other  departments  into 
one.  Among  these  I  must  think  that  a  strong  prefer- 
ence in  us  for  any  one,  is  often  an  indication  of  some 
peculiar  power  to  succeed  in  that  one,  and  therefore, 
other  things  being  equal,  of  the  will  of  Providence 
that  we  should  pursue  that  one." 

A  third  pair  of  boots,  which  had  been  heard  gradu- 
ally approaching  through  the  passage  and  room, 
was  now  added  to  the  row  on  the  fender,  supply- 
ing the  positive  degree  of  comparison,  small,  to  the 
smaller,  and  smallest,  already  perched  baskmg  there, 
like  four  black-birds  on  a  fence  in  the  sun  :  as  Edward, 
lazily  throwing  himself  back  in  his  father's  old  arm- 
chair, ejaculated,  "  What  reason  the  community  has 
to  be  thankful,  that  a  merciful  Providence  wasn't 
pleased  to  endow  me  with  a  strong  preference  for  pick- 
ing pockets !  I  should  hold  myself  bound  in  conscience 
to  devote  myself  to  it  immediately,  that  it  might  hence- 
forward be  conducted  on  the  highest  principles." 

"  Try  it,  and  welcome,"  said  Clara,  laughing ;  '•  I'll 
pay  for  all  you  steal.  '  You're  very  clever,  sir,'  as 
poor  Miss  Tuangh  said,  when  we  were  little  and  she 
came  to  try  to  give  us  lessons  on  the  guitar ;  '  but  you 
want  entoosras?  " 

Edward  yawned,  poked  the  fire,  leaned  back  again 
in  his  chair,  and — twiddled  Clara's  golden-beaded  pur- 
ple silk  purse  between  the  finger  and  thumb  of  one 
hand,  and  threw  up  and  caught  Herman's  black  pocket- 
book  with  the  other,  concluding  the  performance  by 


232  HERMAN. 

depositing  them  in  his  opposition  waistcoat-pockets, 
and  saying  in  a  languid  tone,  "My  dear  Herman,- 
you  can  write  a  draft  on  Miss  Arden,  to  send  to  your 
tailor." 

"  You  have  got  the  laugh  against  her,  to  be  sur6," 
said  Herman  ;  "  but  against  me  you  have  not.  Inno- 
cent occupations  were  what  I  was  speaking  of." 

"  I  have  always  been  impressed  with  the  belief,  in 
the  society  of  the  good,"  rejoined  Edward,  "  that  no 
occupations  were  innocent,  theoretically  considered, 
for  which  I  had  a  vocation.  I  thought  you  said  use- 
ful. Usefulness  is,  in  the  judgment  of  a  practical 
man,  a  far  higher  virtue  than  innocence  ;  and  this  pur- 
suit of  pocket-picking  is  in  the  highest  degree  a  profita- 
ble occupation, — to  the  pickpocket.  Let  us  see."  He 
pulled  out  again  the  purse  and  the  pocket-book.  He 
slipped  together  the  gold  rings  of  the  former,  and  ex- 
plored its  recesses  with  one  long,  white  middle -finger. 
"  In  Clara's,  an  eagle  at  this  end ;  and  in  this,  four  sil- 
ver quarters  of  a  dollar,  and  four  three-cent  pieces, — 
tokens  of  her  guileless  disposition,^ — which  she  took  in 
change,  I  would  wager  my  head,  in  full  faith  that  they 
were  four  gold  dollars.  Herman's  ;" — he  unclasjDcd  it, 
— "  better  still ;  a  lead-pencil,  inspired,  no  doubt, — a 
toothpick,  adapted  to  be  used  as  a  harmless  provocative 
in  .the  intervals  of  inspiration,  and — oh,  great  Apollo  ! 
look  at  the  poetry  ! — What  a  bargain  I  shall  drive  with 
Putnam !  And  now  that  I've  got  the  pencil,  I  can 
write  nobody  knows  how  much  more  with  it,  and 
sell  it  when  I've  done  as  a  literary  relic,  secondary 
only  in  importance  to  Dr.  Goldsmith's  wig.  But,  in 
the  first  place,  let  me  see  whether  these  efi'usions  can 
be  read ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  let  me  see  whether 
they  can  be  understood.     May  I  f ' 


THE    AEMORY.  233 

"  '  Try  it,'  as  Clara  said  ;  I'll  make  jou  welcome  to 
all  you  will  make  out.     '  You're  very  clever,  sir,'  &c." 
"  It  does  look  a  little  Pindaric,  to  be  sure.     How- 
ever, 

"  *  As  home  to  the  homesick, 
As  rest  to  the  weary, 
As  land  to  the  shipwTecked, 
As  death  to  despair !' 

Bhythm  unexceptionable ;  but  what  got  the  rhyme  ? 

It  must  have  fallen  out  with  itself  when  I  tossed  up 

the   pocket-book.       Patrick   will   pick   it   up   before 

breakfast  to-morrow  morning,  perhaps,  when  he  sweeps 

the  carpet. 

♦*  'Aurora,  Musis  arnica.' 

I  have  noticed  that  he  is  often  tuneful  at  such  sea- 
sons, inspired,  I  suppose,  by  the  soft  cadence  of  the 
straws  in  his  broom,  just  as  our  other  household  min- 
strel is,  by  the  measured,  murmurous  rustle  of  the 
reeds  around  Castalia's  fountain.  The  poetical  pocket- 
book  proceeds : 

*« '  The  turf  grows  smooth  and  green  once  more. 
From  whence  the  tree  was  torn; 
But  doth  the  summer  shade  therefore. 
And  song  of  birds,  return  V 

A  little  want  of  logical  sequence  observable,  perhaps  ; 
but,  to  make  amends  for  it,  we  find  here  an  interesting 
token  of  the  progress  of  the  aft  of  poesy,  in  the  super- 
inducement  of  rhyme,  imperfect,  indeed,  and  rude  as 
yet,  but  full  of  promise  for  the  future.  The  awakening 
of  a  spirit  of  scientific  inquiry  is  also  to  be  remarked, 
m  the  last  two  lines.  Lest  the  poet  himself  should 
not  possess  sylvan  information  suflScient  to  set  at  rest 
the  anxious  doubt,  which  he  excites  in  the  minds  of  his 


234  HEKMAN. 

readers,  I  will  state  in  a  little  annotation  on  the  mar- 
gin, that  if  the  tree  whose  nntimely  deracination  he 
deploreth  was  an  oak,  a  pine  will  probably  spring  up 
in  its  room, — or,  if  it  was  a  pine,  an  oak.  Thus  its 
place  will  be  refilled,  if  not  by  one  thing,  by  another ; 
and  the  soil  meanwhile  gets  the  benefit  of  a  rotation  of 
crops." 

"  Thank  you  for  a  happy  idea,"  said  Herman. 

"  You  are  extremely  welcome.     To  continue : 

"  '  The  twittering  nests  'mid  whispering  leaves, 
The  boughs,  return  no  more; 
And  time  may  heal  the  heart  that  grieves, 
But  scarce  its  bliss  restore.' " 

Herman's  cheeks  glowed  under  this  infliction,  like 
those  of  an  Indian  at  the  stake ;  but  he  bore  it  like 
one.     Clara  pitied  him,  and  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Come,  ]^ed,"  said  she,  "  /  want  the  pocket- 
book." 

"  What  will  you  give  me  for  it  ?  Remember,  I 
have  scarcely  as  yet  begun  my  examination  of  it.  We 
are,  as  it  were,  selling  and  buying  an  unexplored  tract 
in  California.  You  must  pay  me  a  handsome  pre- 
mium on  its  possibilities." 

^'  A  three-cent  piece  ? — A  quarter  of  a  dollar  ? — The 
eagle  ?" 

"  Ko  ;  I  am   above  mercenary  considerations  ;  and 
j  besides,  I've  got  them  already ^" 

!       "  Extortioner  !     What  will  you  have,  then  ? — a  tune 
on  the  piano  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  1  can  always  get  that  gratis.  Who 
thinks  of  paying  for  the  air  he  breathes?  I  retort 
your  reproach.  Wlio  but  an  extortioner  would  think 
of  making  me  pay  for  the  air  I  hear  ?  Will  you  tell 
me  what  you  two  had  been  discussing  before  I 
came  in  ?" 


THE  ARMORY.  235 

"  If  YOU  will  let  Herman  have  the  pocket-hook." 

"  And  go  on  with  the  discussion,  just  as  if  I  were 
not  here  ?" 

"  If  YOU  will  not  interrupt  and  make  fun  of  us, — if 
you  will  let  me  haYe  the  purse." 

"  There  then.     ISTow  then." 

"  Herman  was  abusing  the  clerical  profession." 

"  Yerj  good.  Let  us  hear.  All  fair  in  war.  They 
abuse  us  to  their  hearts'  content,  eYery  Sunday.  Why 
shouldn't  we  take  our  rcYenge  on  a  week-day  ?" 

"  I  w^as  abusing,  not  the  members  of  the  profession, 
but  the  incouYeniences  and  restrictions  of  it.  Clara 
was  asking  me  why  I  did  not  enter  it." 

"  Clara,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  lock  you  up.  It  would 
never  do,  in  the  world,  for  a  fellow  of  his  temper- 
ament !" 

"  And  I  w^as  telling  her  that  I  did  not  incline  to  do 
so,  and  why,  not  inclining,  I  did  not  see  that  I  ought. 
I  don't  know  w^hereabouf  we  were,  exactly,  when  we 
left  off ;  but  I'll  begin  again  here,  at  any  rate.  A  good 
example,  or  I  am  much  mistaken,  often  loses  half  its 
effect  by  being  sei:  by  a  person  whose  setting  it  is  taken 
as  quite  a  matter  of  course,  and  all  in  the  way  of  his 
business.  There  seems  to  have  been  a  convenient  divi- 
sion of  labor  between  many  congregations  and  their 
pastors,  like  that  between  many  wives  and  their  hus- 
bands. '  Be  good  for  us,'  virtually  but  not  virtuously, 
says  the  congregation,  'and  we'll  be  rich  for  you.' 
Thus  the  good  example  and  precepts  of  their  clergy- 
men are  too  apt  to  look  like  parts  of  financial  transac- 
tions, to  the  very  men  whose  minds  most  need  to  be 
turned,  by  his  prece]:>ts  and  example,  from  their  too  ex- 
clusive devotion  to  financial  transactions.  They  think 
he  is  good  for  so  much  a  year,  just  as  they  are  busy  for  so 


2iJ6  HERMAN. 

much  a  year.  You  will  ask  me,  I  dare  say,  now,  what 
reason  I  have  to  take  it  for  granted,  that  I  am  going  to 
set  a  good  example  at  all,  in  orders  or  out." — 

"]^o,  I  shan't,"  said  Edward.  "All  precedent 
confirms  the  depressing  idea.  But  I  must  ask  you 
how  you  can  answer  it  to  your  conscience,  that  you 
persist  in  setting  the  example  to  a  person  of  so  persist- 
ent unimprovableness  as  myself  Have  you  no  fear  of 
increasing  my  culpabilities  by  my  opportunities  ?" 

"  Not  I.  That's  your  affair.  I  can  trust  you  to 
take  care  of  yourself  I  suspect  your  worst  sin  is,  pre- 
tending to  be  sinful.  A  less  tasteful  kind  of  hypocrisy, 
by  the  way,  Mr.  Ned,  than  the  common  kind.  That 
is  said,  you  know,  to  be  '  the  homage  which  Yice  pays 
toYirtue ;'  but  yours  is  the  homage  which  Virtue  pays 
to  Yice.  However,  I  have  no  fear  of  hurting  anybody 
in  that  way,  at  least.  I  don't  take  it  for  granted,  at 
all,  that  I  am  going  to  set  a  good  example  ;  but  if  I  am 
not,  I  have  no  right  to  go  into  the  pulpit ;  and  if  I  am, 
I  believe  that  I  need  not  go  into  the  pulpit.  I  believe 
that  I, — observe,  I  don't  say  everybody,  but  /, — can  do 
more  good  out  of  it  than  in  it.  The  stampede  of  con- 
scientious men,  as  a  matter  of  course,  into  it,  must  be 
attended,  I  think,  with  this  great  disadvantage,  among 
others  ;  if  all  conscientious  men  are  to  be  expected  to 
go  into  the  pulpit,  the  converse  of  the  proposition  will 
be  practically  taken  for  granted  :  namely,  men  who 
don't  go  into  the  pulpit  are  not  to  be  expected  to  be  con- 
scientious. God  makes  the  priest,  as  much  as  He  makes 
the  poet.  If  the  priesthood, — no,  I  doubt  whether  that 
word  belongs  to  the  new  covenant ;  it  is  obsolete, — if 
the  ministry  is  a  man's  vocation,  let  him  take  if  and 
thank  God,  for  it  is  the  highest ;  but,  if  I  know^  my- 
Belf,   it   is   not   mine.     The  church  wants  such  God- 


THE     ARMOEY.  237 

anointed  leaders,  God  knows,  to  till  her  lii^Lest  places, 
in  these  half-deistical,  half-superstitious  days ;  but  we 
cannot  all  till  the  highest  places;  and  she  wants 
Christian  laymen,  too,  ready  to  carry  out  fearlessly  and 
freely  into  practice,  what  her  Christian  preachers 
preach,  and  to  show,  as  her  preachers  cannot,  how  per- 
fect soever  their  practice  may  be,  that  no  such  apology 
as  a  black  coat  is  needed  for  saying  Christian, — I  don't 
mean  canting, — words,  and  doing  Christian  deeds." 

There  was  a  pause ;  and  Clara  tilled  it  by  saying, 
"  Herman  was  telling  me,  that  he  thought  of  studying 
medicine." 

"  Was  he  ?"  said  Edward.  "  I  noticed  in  passing 
something  of  a  gap  in  my  shelves.  I  supposed  he  had 
run  away  with  the  contents,  merely  with  the  inten- 
tion of  tilling  up  a  corresponding  space  in  his  coiirs  da 
litterature  universelle.  Do  you  really  mean  to  prac- 
tise ?" 

"  If  I  can  get  a  chance.  Dr.  Brodie  tells  me  that 
he  can  make  me  useful  immediately,  as  a  sort  of  half- 
assistant  among  his  poor  patients." 

"  Shall  you  practise  only  among  the  poor  ?" 

"  That's  as  it  may  prove  hereafter.  I  shall  go 
where  I'm  wanted ; — if  the  rich  send  for  me,  to  the 
rich  ;  if  the  poor,  to  the  poor.  If  both,  perhaps  I  shall 
find  it  convenient  to  be  a  sort  of  medical  Kobin  Hood, 
and  take  from  the  one  what  I  give  to  the  other." 

'^  How  lono;  have  vou  thouo^ht  of  it  ?" 

''  Ever  since  I  saw  the  inflamed  eyes  of  the  poor 
Indians,  I  believe.  Ever  since  Ave  came  on  a  poor, 
forsaken  Sioux  girl,  on  the  prairies,  I  am  sure.  Didn't 
I  write  ?  Xo,  I  had  no  chance  at  that  time  to  send  a 
letter.  It  was  a  very  hard  case.  A  pretty  creature 
she  was,  of  sixteen  or  eighteen,  and  seemed,  from  her 


238  liEliMAN. 

dress,  to  be  a  person  of  condition.  She  had  on  leggings 
of  fine  scarlet  cloth,  richly  ornamented,  and  was  wrap- 
ped in  two  superb  buffalo  robes,  which  were  beautifully 
embroidered  with  porcupines'  quills,  as  were  a  pair  of 
new  moccasins  wliich  she  had  on,  besides.  She  was 
lying  beside  a  perfect  encampment  of  the  dead, — of 
dead-lodges,  so-called.  E'ine  Sioux  were  decomposing 
in  theirs,  at  a  little  distance, — to  her  extreme  disconi- 
posure,  one  would  have  thought, — lying  in  state  in 
their  buffalo-skins,  with  their  saddles,  spears,  camp- 
kettles,  and  accoutrements,  piled  around  them.  They 
had  all  died  of  the  cholera  ;  and  her  savage  friends, 
afraid  to  wait  for  her  to  follow  their  example,  had  paid 
her  the  agreeable  attention  of  laying  her  out  before- 
hand, with  all  these  pretty  things,  I  suppose,  to  recon- 
cile her  to  the  arrangement,  in  the  spirit  of  the 
Frenchman,  who  promised  to  design  for  an  elderly  and 
decrepit  gentleman  a  monument  so  exquisite  that  it 
would  be  enough  to  give  one  '  envie  de  7nourir.^  Then 
they  had  all  run  away  and  left  her.  She  opened  her 
eyes  and  looked  at  us ;  and  I  hope,  that  it  w^as  some 
comfort  to  her  to  see  living  faces  around  her  as  she 
died.  But  I  thought,  then,  how  gladly  I'd  have  given 
all  my  knowledge,  such  as  it  was,  for  a  little  of 
yours." 

"  You  have  never  thought  of  practising  law?" 

"  'No,  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did  much  in  earnest. 
I  liked  the  study,  and  had  a  vague  notion  of  its  being 
a  stepping-stone  for  me  into  public  life," — 

"  Which  your  Free-Soilisin  has  knocked  in  the 
head,  hey  ?— " 

"  I  don't  want  an  employment  to  show  me  only  the 
worst  side  of  men ;  I  am  getting  cynical  enough,  in 
spite  of  myself,  without  it,  in  all  conscience.     A  man 


THE     ARMOEY.  239 

lias  no  business  to  stand  aside  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  abusing  the  world  for  being  so  bad,  before  he 
has  done  anything  in  the  world  to  make  it  better. 
I  want  active,  social,  regular,  benevolent,  in  a  manner 
compulsory,  occupation.  I  feel  myself  strongly  at- 
tracted to  your  profession.  What  do  you  think  of  my 
going  into  it,  Xed  ?" 

Herman  asked  this  question  with  some  anxiety; 
for  Edward  was  thought,  by  those  who  knew  him  best, 
to  have  a  laro^e  stock  of  sound  common-sense  and  sas^a- 
city,  which  he  generously  put  into  a  charity-fund,  and 
reserved  it  exclusively  for  the  use  of  his  neighbours. 
Edward  raised  himself  in  his  chair,  sat  judicially  up- 
right, and  considered. 

"  Well,  I  believe  it  may  be  a  very  good  plan,  if  you 
follow  it  up  in  moderation.  You're  in  magnificent 
health  now  ;  but  you  must  remember  that  you've  pro- 
bably inherited  from  your — ahem  ! — parents,  a  nervous 
system  that  mustn't  be  trifled  with." 

"  Let  my  nervous  system  alone,  you  sir ;  and  don't 
talk  shop.  I  rather  think,  all  that  must  have  altered 
since  I  was  a  child.  At  Cassei's  they  call  me  the 
strongest  man  of  my  height  and  weight  in  Boston." 

"  No ! — do  they? — So  far,  so  good.  Then  you  have 
only  got  to  mind  that  you  keep  yourself  so.  It  won't 
do,  for  instance,  for  you  to  study  from  starlight  to  star- 
light six  days  in  the  week,  and  sit  up  with  sick  emi- 
grants six  nights." 

"  I'll  take  care." 

"  If  you  will,  I  cannot  see  why  you  shouldn't  do 
very  well.  You're  just  the  inexplicable  sort  of  person 
to  like  practising  medicine ;  and  Clara  and  I  are  just 
the  inexplicable  sort  of  persons  to  like  having  you, — 
aren't  we,  my  Psyche  ? — if  we  should  ever  be  foolish 


240  IIEKMAN. 

enougli  to  get  sick,  whicli  we  don't  mean  to  do  on  tbio 
side  of  ninety.  Your  chemistry,  Latin,  and  Greek,  are 
no  bad  stock  in  trade  to  begin  with,  nor  your  modern 
languages,  either,  among  foreigners.  Pity  the  Erse 
isn't  among  th^m ;  but  you  might  take  a  few  lessons 
of  the  golden-mouthed  Gummage  !  And  it's  no  bad 
thing  for  a  poor,  but  practical,  philanthropist,  to  have 
some  advice  that  people  are  ready  to  take,  to  give 
away,  beside  all  his  money,  which  he  needs  for  him- 
self." 

In  Herman's  opinion,  he  by  no  means  needed  all 
his  money  for  himself.  By  his  father's  will,  he  had 
his  lodging  given  him  until  he  should  marry;  and,  by 
his  brother's  and  sister's  will,  all  his  other  household 
expenses.  His  yearly  income  was  about  three  thou- 
sand dollars.  He  had  determined  to  make  one-third 
of  this  suffice  him  for  clothes  and  pocket-money ;  to  in- 
vest one- third  to  meet  possible  unexpected  demands 
upon  him  in  the  future ;  and  to  bestow  the  rest  in 
charity.  Of  the  latter,  two  hundred  dollars  were  to  go 
annually  to  one  of  two  missionaries,  whom  he  had  en- 
gaged to  go  out  to  his  Indian  friends. 

He  had  not  forgotten  them,  but  had  made  it  his  first 
business  on  his  return  to  find  some  vigorous,  sensible,  and 
kiii/^lly  young  man,who  liad  enough  of  the  apostolic  spirit 
to  give  his  time  and  teaching  to  them  zealously,  in  return 
for  a  living.  It  fell  out  l)eyond  his  hopes  that,  by  a  very 
liappy  chance  or  providence,  his  friend  Dr.  Lovel  was 
'Me  to  point  out  to  him  not  one,  but  two,  just  such  as 
he  wanted,  young  theological  graduates  and  friends, 
whose  large  frames,  developed  at  the  plough  and 
anvil,  had  proved  unable  to  bear  the  change  to  the 
sedentar}^  life  of.  the  clergyman  of  a  parish,  and  who 
were  on  the  point,  to  their  great  regret,  of  abandoning 


THE  AEMORY.  241 

their  profession  for  some  more  active  and  airy  occnpa- 
tion.  They  were  able  and  eager  to  teach  their  rude 
converts  enough  of  farming  and  house-building  to  keep 
them  out  of  mischief  through  the  week,  and  on  a  Sunday 
to  talk  to  them,  simply,  plainly,  and  devoutly,  of  God, 
His  Son,  and  His  will,  to  administer  reverently  all  holy 
rites,  and  to  do  their  best  by  precept  and  example  to 
build  up  in  the  hearts  of  our  red  neighbours  a  new  lit- 
tle chapel  in  the  wide  church  of  Christ.  They  were 
already  making  their  preparations  to  depart  together 
for  the  wilderness,  with  the  alacrity  of  a  pair  of. 
Xaviers  or  John  Eliots,  Herman  agreeing  to  provide 
in  part  for  the  support  of  one  of  them,  and  Clara  for 
that  of  the  other,  for  the  present,  until  they  should 
have  had  time  to  settle,  and  provide  for,  themselves. 

"  You  ought  to  be  laying  up  something,"  continued 
the  young  old  bachelor  ;  "  you'll  want  to  be  married 
and  settled  by  and  by." 

Herman  said  nothing  to  this,  which  Edward  thought 
a  bad  sign.  Clara  said,  "  Oh !"  for  Patrick  had 
lighted  the  gas,  and  revealed  Mr.  Flint,  who  must  have 
been  sitting  there  in  the  dark  behind  them,  and  listen- 
ing to  their  conversation,  nobody  knew  how  long. 
Being  discovered,  he  emitted  a  chuckle,  half-propitia- 
tory, half-congratulatory,  and  came  forward  rubbing 
his  hands  with  satisfaction  at  the  success  of  his  graceful 
and  agreeable  trick. 

"  Found  your  front-door  on  the  jar,"  said  he,  "  and 
slid  in  jest  for  to  show  ye  how  easy  a  burglar  might. 
Glad  to  hear  a  little  profitable  conversation.  Doctor, 
there  was  some  sense  in  what  you  was  a-sayin  of.  It's 
time  Herman  here  was  a-doin  somethin.  It  don't 
never  pay  for  young  fellers  to  be  idle." 

Edward,  who  did  not  gratefully  appreciate   either 
11 


212  HERMAN.      • 

liis  brother -in -law's  pleasantry  or  his  approbation, 
bowed  rather  stiffly,  presently  said  something  of  "  a  lit- 
tle business  to  attend  to  above- stairs,"  and  walked  oft 
to  the  last  number  of  "The  N"ewcomes  "  and  a  cigar. 
(He  had  once  brought  one  into  the  parlour,  when  Mr. 
Flint  stayed  too  long,  but  only  once.  That  was  a  joke, 
which  Mr.  Flint  in  his  turn  did  not  appreciate ; — for 
tobacco  made  him  sick  ;  and  it  drove  him  off; — nor  did 
Clara.  It  was  of  no  use  for  Edward  to  endeavour  to 
explain  to  her,  as  humbly  as  learnedly,  that  he  perpe- 
trated it  only  in  conformity  to  the  custom  of  the  pol- 
ished ancients,  who  always  burned  perfume  before  their 
guests,  when  it  was  time  for  them  to  depart.  She  was 
within  an  inch  of  being  angry  with  him, — nearer  than 
she  had  been  since  the  days  when  they  w^ere  contend- 
ing rivals  in  the  nursery  for  the  attentions  of  "  Nursey," 
— and  she  followed  up  the  rebuke  of  her  countenance, 

**  Severe  in  youthful  beauty," 

by  a  little  speech  to  the  effect,  that  it  was  the  only  un- 
gentlemanlike  thing  she  had  ever  known  him  to  do  in 
his  life.  Dr.  Arden  was  speedily  brought  to  repent- 
ance, and  never  relapsed.) 

"  Charity's  a  good  thing  in  its  time  an  place,  Her- 
man," continued  the  voice  of  the  charmer  ;  "  but  you're 
young  yet ;  an  I  can  tell  ye  it  had  ought  to  begin  to 
home,  an  be  kep  there,  too,  a  consider'ble  spell,  afore 
it's  let  out.  You  come  down  to  my  store  jest  as  so  )!i 
as  ye  like,  and  fetch  whatever  you  choose  in  your  pus, 
an  I'll  put  ye  in  the  way  to  double  an  thrible  it.  That's  i 
fair  offer,  ain't  it.  Clary  ?  I've  got  a  stool  an  det^k  all 
ready  for  ye  ;  an  I  an  Steel  want  a  young  gent  like  yo-i, 
that  can  read  an  write  French  an  Spanish,  an  them  lii- 
goes,  pretty  bad  jest  now.    You  look  out  f'  >!  number  one 


THE  ARMOEY.  243 

m  the  fust  place,  get  rich,  an  live  all  respectable  an 
comf  table.  Hold  on  to  your  money  while  ye  want  it, 
and  as  long  as  ye  can.  When  you're  done  with  it,'t'Il 
do  jest  as  much  good  as  ever  to  other  people.  Jest  you 
make  a  will,  an  leave  a  lot  on  it,  you  know,  to  the 
missionaries,  or  some  divinity-school  or  benevolent  in- 
Btitootion,  to  pay  the  insurance  on  your  soul,  you  know. 
That's  the  way  I  do  business.  That's  my  notion  of 
charity." 

"  But  suppose,  Mr.  Flint,  you  shonld  fail — " 

"  Good  gracious,  sir !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Flint,  starting 
to  his  feet,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  not  succeed  in  your  business, — not  become 
rich." 

"  Good  gracious,  sir !  I'll  trouble  you  to  be  more 
guarded  in  your  expressions.  Fiii  not  generally  nerv- 
ous, but  really  I  The  credit  of  a  business  man, — an 
honest  man !  I  hope  your  help  isn't  in  the  pantry.  I 
hope  nobody  beared." 

"  Ko,  no.     There's  nobody  there." 

"  If  it  isn't  disagreeable,  I'll  shut  the  door." 

"  I'll  shut  it  myself  I  beg  your  pardon  for  using 
so  unlucky  an  expression." 

"  It  was  a  very  equivocal  expression,  Herman,  I  beg 
leave  to  observe.  Anything  that  suggests  the  idea  of 
insolvency  I — might  bring  a  run  upon  me  directly ! 
You'll  be  more  prudent,  though,  in  my  office  ?" 

"  If  I  possibly  can,"  said  Herman,  a  little  mali- 
ciously, "  if  I  decide  on  accepting  your  kind  offer.  But 
suppose  you  should  not  succeed  in  your  plans, — not 
become  rich  at  all,  or  earn  a  good  deal  of  money  and 
lose  it  before  you  died,  without  becoming  bankrupt  ?" 
"  Well,  sir,  I  guess  'twouldn't  be  long  afore  I  died, 
anyhow.     I'll  trouble  you  to  discontinoo  the  subject." 

"  Yes ;  but,  Mr.  Flint,  suppose  I  fail," — 


244:  HEKMAN. 

"Nothing  more  likely,  I  should  think,  sir,"  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Flint,  grinning  rather  wickedly. 

"  In  the  charitable  plans,  I  mean,  which  you  w^ere 
so  good  as  to  attribute  to  me.  That  would  be  other 
people's  loss,  not  mine,  wouldn't  it?  Did  you  ever 
know  a  man  die  of  grief  for  the  losses  of  his  neighbours  ? 
Don't  you  think  I  should  stand  it?" 

Mr.  Flint  smiled  again  rather  more  amicably,  and 
agreed  that  there  might  be  "  some  sense  in  that  'ere 
voo ;"  and  Herman,  whose  well-bred  conscience  pricked 
him  a  little  for  his  pertinacity,  thanked  him  so  heartily 
for  his  generous  offers,  that  he  completely  mollified 
him.     Mr.  Flint  went  on : 

"Well,  go  on  your  own  hook,  and  welcome;  but 
whatever  ye  do,  don't  be  poor.  Keep  clear  o'  that, 
anyhow.  It's  about  the  wust  thing  in  the  world ;  an 
nobody  knows  how  awful  'tis  that  hain't  tried  it. 
There  was  my  granmother.  Poor  old  lady !  she  died 
to  the  poor-house.  She  took  care  o'  me,  and  kep  on 
her  limbs  as  long  as  she  could ;  but  she  got  too  old  to 
do  any  thin  to  support  herself;  and  so  they  put  her  in 
there,  an  bound  me  prentice  to  a  dairy-farmer.  "Well, 
I  took  on  terribly  about  it,  by  myself,  up  in  the  barn- 
chamber  ;  but  I  dursn't  go  near  her  for  a  month,  for  fear 
o'  the  other  boys  pokin  fun  at  me  about  bavin  a  relative 
in  snch  a  place ;  but  she  took  sick  with  lonesomeness 
and  what-not ;  an  when  I  beared  o'  that,  I  jest  cut  an 
run  there.  But  her  intellect  was  a  good  deal  affected ; 
an  when  she  see  me,  an  knoo  'twas  somebody  that  was 
kind  to  her,  she  jest  put  out  her  claw  of  a  hand  and 
said,  'Koathted  apple.'  Her  teeth  was  poor;  an  I 
s'pose  she  couldn't  eat  what  they  give  her.  Well,  I 
told  'em  what  she  wanted,  and  begged  'em  to  give  her 
one ;  but  'twas  early  in  the  fall ;  an  I  s'pose  apples 


THE    ARMORY.  2-xO 

wa'n't  very  reasonable  yet ;  an  they  said  they  hadn't 
got  none.  I  was  a  tender-hearted  little  fellow  then, 
jest  like  my  son  Thomas." 

["  No,  you  were  not,  then  nor  ever  !"  indignantly, 
but  internally,  remarked  Miss  Arden.] 

"  I  cried  an  run  right  off  to  a  man  that  had  a  orchard 
nigh  there,  an  told  him  if  he'd  let  me  have  a  dozen  of 
liis  great  red  Baldwins  for  granny,  I'd  bring  his  cow  to 
and  from  pasture  with  onr'n  every  day  and  night  for  a 
month.  My  mouth  had  watered  for  'em  many  a  time, 
an  I  might  ha'  stole  'em  easy  enough;  but  that  never 
warn't  my  way.  Honesty's  the  best  policy.  We  struck 
the  bargain  ;  but  don't  you  think  the  stingy  old  codger 
wouldn't  trust  me  with  one  aforehand !  'Drive  the 
cow  safe  a  week  fust,  an  then  come  for  your  fust  three 
apples,  an  so  on,'  says  he.  '  Granny'll  be  dead !'  says 
I.  '  Granny's  granson  won't,'  says  he ;  '  better  speak 
out,  an  tell  truth,  and  say  you  want  'em  to  eat  your- 
self,' says  he.  '  We  all  know  Squire  Scrouge  keeps  you 
pretty  short ;'  an  then  he  an  his  men  set  up  a  haw-haw, 
an  I  run  off  boo-hooin  harder  than  ever ;  an  I  went 
stompin  my  feet  many  a  time  to  an  from  pasture, 
to  think  how  she  might  be  a-dyin,  an  I  couldn't  go 
near  her  for  want  of  a  apple !" 

"  What  a  shame !"  cried  Clara. 

"What  a  disgraceful  shame!"  cried  Herman. 

"Yes,  wa'n't  it?  And  to  think  how  I  might  be 
a-drivin  his  plaguey  old  cow  for  nothin,  too,  all  the 
time !  I  wa'nt,  though.  That  wa'n't  never  my  luck. 
Wednesday  come  round  again ;  an  I  went  and  got  my 
apples,  an  picked  up  sticks  out  in  the  woods,  an  lighted 
'em  with  a  match  I'd  been  treasurin  up,  that  I'd  found 
in  the  road,  an  roasted  my  apples,  an  carried  'em  to 
her  all  bobbin  hot  on  a  twine.     I  never  see  anythiu 


24C  HERMAN. 

eat  like  her ;  an  tlie  other  old  grannies  come  round  an 
looked  on,  an  mumped  with  their  chins  as  ef  they  wished 
they'd  had  somethin  to  mump  for.  She  lived  to  eat  'em  all 
but  three.  When  I  brought  them,  she  wast  jest  a-dyin,  an 
couldn't  take  no  notice.  I  couldn't  touch  'em.  They'd 
ha'  stuck  in  my  throat.  I  went  an  sold  'em  for  six 
cents;  an  them  six  cents  was  the  nest-egg  of  all  I'm 
wuth  now.  I  walked  into  the  city  the  fust  chance  I 
could  get,  an  bought  half  a  dozen  slate-pencils  with  'em 
an  traded  'em  off  with  the  boys  around  for  nine-pence ; 
and  so  on  from  that  time,  I've  always  gone  to  bed 
Saturday  night  richer  than  I  got  up  Monday  morning; 
for  I  vowed,  when  I  stood  by  poor  old  granny's  shabby 
old  shell  of  a  second-hand  coffin,  that  /wouldn't  die 
poor,  or  I'd  know  why." 

He  wiped  his  eyes ;  and  Clara  pitied  him  so  much, 
that  she  asked  him  to  stay  to  tea.  It  was  a  case  of 
virtue  rewarded,  for  he  "guessed  he'd  got  to  go  home, 
an  look  over  his  accounts."  Herman  attended  him  to 
the  door,  precisely  like  a  very  good  brother-in-law,  and 
came  back  in  a  state  of  contrition. 

"  How  much  better  we  might  think  of  almost  all 
persons  we  dislike,  if  we  knew  them  better!"  said 
Clara. 

"  The  very  thing  I  had  in  my  mind.  We  see  men's 
faults,  but  not  the  excuses  for  them.  If  mankind  had 
dealt  more  generously  by  little  Jonathan,  Mr.  Flint 
might  deal  more  generously  by  mankind.  As  it  is, 
how  honest  he  is !" 

"  In  spite  of  the  Coolies  ?"  said  Clara,  archly. 

"Well,  as  honest  as  a  man  can  be,  who  lets  his 
neighbours  keep  his  conscience  for  him?  I  shall  let 
him  have  all  my  savings  to  take  care  of,  taking  due 
care  myself  that  they  are  not  invested  in  Coolies ;  and 


THE     ARMORY.  247 

I  shall  not  turn  up  the  nose  of  the  disrespectful  at  his 
offers  of  patronage  and  fortune.  He  wished  to  give 
me  the  best  he  knew.  Knowing  what  he  told  us,  who 
can  wonder  at  his  having  a  morbid  horror  of  poverty  ? 
Besides,  a  man  who  has  a  family,  ought  to  endeavour 
to  make  a  proper  provision  for  a  family." 

Clara  did  not  say,  '*  You  may  have  a  family  ;"  for, 
when  Edward  suggested  it,  she  had  noticed  Herman's 
silence,  and  divined  with  gentle-womanly  tact  that  his 
wounds  were  still  too  fresh  to  be  touched.  At  any 
rate,  the  profession  upon  wh?ch  he  wished  to  enter 
would  be  of  itself  a  provision  for  the  possible  wants  of 
the  future.  He  continued:  "To  go  from  particulars 
to  generals,  I  think  there  is  some  injustice  in  the  gen- 
eral sneer  against  the  dollar-hunting  of  Xew  England 
and  the  Middle  States,  as  there  is  in  most  undiscrimi- 
nating  sneers.  People  despise  others  for  struggling 
for  things  which  they  do  not  struggle  for,  merely  be- 
cause they  already  have  them.  There  is  as  mucli 
jealousy  on  one  side  as  there  is  envy  on  the  other. 
Take  from  a  British  nobleman  his  title  and  entailed 
estates,  and  from  a  Southern  planter  his  negroes  and 
plantation,  and  if  they  do  not  presently  set  themselves 
to  work,  as  hard  as  we,  to  help  themselves,  by  hook  or 
by  crook,  to  the  comforts,  elegances,  and  luxuries  of 
life,  and  to  a  position  in  society,  it  will  probably  be  not 
because  they  are  more  unworldly  than  we,  but  because 
they  are  more  unenterprising  and  lazy.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  is  a  frightfully  common  tendency 
among  us  to  seek  things,  in  themselves  good  or  harm- 
less, in  a  bad  or  dangerous  way.  I  do  not  see  that  the 
Kew  Testament  forbids  us  to  make  Mammon  serve  us  ; 
but  it  does  tell  us  that  we  cannot  serve  God  and 
Mammon ;    and   we   do   serve  Mammon.     Where   so 


248  HERMAN. 

many  bow  down,  perhaps  the  counterpoise  of  the  com- 
raunitj  may  best  be  restored  by  some  few  leaning  back- 
ward. It  is  the  privilege  of  yomig  men  situated  like 
me,  for  instance,  with  health,  competence,  and  leisure, 
to  be  able  to  do  this  ; — among  a  community,  almost  all 
of  whom  do,  and  most  of  whom  must,  work  hard  for 
money,  to  w^ork  as  hard,  but  not  for  money, — for  some- 
thing better  than  money, — to  carry  out  literally  the 
apostle's  direction,  '  Let  uo  man  seek  his  ow^n,  but  an- 
other's wealth,'  as  we  have  it  in  our  rather  intensified 
version.  The  more  literally  we  can  carry  out  such  pre- 
cepts, the  better  for  us,  it  seems  to  me,  each  and  all. 
Perhaps  this,  in  its  fulness,  is  one  of  those  precepts 
which  not  all  men  can  receive,  but  those  to  whom  it  is 
given  ;  but  I  have  a  very  deeply  strong  impression, 
that  it  is  given  at  least  to  me.  In  all  my  tastes,  cir- 
cumstances, and  condition,  within  and  without,  I  see 
as  it  were  the  workings  of  the  gloved  hand  of  Provi- 
dence, pointing  and  beckoning  me  to  this  line  of  life." 

"  Are  you  tired  of  my  questions  ?" 

"  :N"ever." 

"  When  Edward  came  in,  I  was  just  going  to  ask 
you  w^iether  you  did  not  think  your  love  of  art 
and  literature  showed  that  you  might  find  pleasure  and 
a  pursuit  in  one  of  those  directions  f 

"Pleasure,  no  doubt.  A  pursuit  such  as  I  need 
just  now  ?  /doubt.  Take  care  of  the  duties,  and  the 
pleasures  will  take  care  of  themselves,  I  believe  will  be 
the  best  maxim  for  me,  while  my  habits  for  mature  life 
are  forming,  particularly  since  I  have  spent  all  my 
past  life  for  myself." 

"  But  not  lost  it,  surely,  Herman,  for  yourself  or  for 
others.  You  have  been  fitting  yourself  for  usefulness, 
—feeding  and  developing  your  mind,  — sharpening  your 
tools." 


THE     ARMOEY.  249 

"  Sharpening  and  pointing  the  weapon  of  self-in- 
dulgence, I  fear,  against  myself,  among  the  rest. 
However,  'Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead,'  and  let  me 
'  act ;  act  in  the  living  present.'  All  men  can  act  well. 
Few  can  write,  carve,  or  paint  well.  On  our  death- 
beds, the  question  which  we  shall  ask  with  most  anxiety, 
of  those  who  would  cheer  and  encourage  us,  will  be, 
not  whether  men  praise  us,  but  whether  Christ  will. 
At  the  judgment-seat,  the  question  which  we  shall  ask 
ourselves,  and  expect,  and  prepare  to  answer,  with  most 
solicitude,  will  be,  not  what  we  have  written,  carved, 
or  painted,  but  what  we  have  done.  A  fellow-soul 
rescued  from  Satan,  is  a  poem  for  an  angel's  reading." 

"  Oh,  Herman,  indeed,  some  paintings  and  poems 
are  deeds,  in  the  best  and  noblest  sense  of  the  word  ! 
Are  they  not  ?  You  would  call  it  a  great  and  good 
deed,  I  am  sure,  to  preach  some  sermons ;  but  did  you 
ever  hear  a  sermon  which  did  more  to  rescue  your  soul 
from  thoughtlessness  and  worldliness  than  Ketszch's 
*  Chess-Player,'  or  the  '  Christus  Eemunerator  ?'  or  that 
helped  to  fill  you  with  more  religious  courage  and  he- 
roism than  Mr.  Longfellow's  'Psalm  of  Life,'  or  more 
Christian  trust  than  his  '  Resignation,^  or  than  some 
of  Mrs.  Browning's  '  Lines  on  Cowper's  Grave  V  " 

"  True,  love  ;  I  have  shifted  my  ground,  I  see ;  and 
you  have  taken  up  your  position  on  that  which  I 
started  from.  I  surrender.  If  I  could,  day  by  day, 
paint  such  pictures,  or  write  such  poems,  I  should 
think  that  I  was  doing  my  part,  and  my  appropriate 
part,  for  mankind  ;  and  that  I  had  earned  a  right, 
perhaps,  in  ordinary  circumstances,  to  give  the 
mere  remnants  of  my  leisure  to  so-called  charities 
The  preacher  by  profession  may  be  too  often  left  to 
dance  alone  to  his  own  piping,  while  even  the  imme- 
11* 


250  HERMAN. 

diate  bystanders  content  themselves  with  listening  or 
looking  on  ;  but  the  great  Christian  author  or  artist  is 
a  trumpeter  whose  notes  are  heard  over  the  civilized 
.world.  It  can  hardly  be,  one  would  think,  but  that, 
among  so  many  listeners,  many  will  be  found  to  march 
to  such  music.  But  I  am  neither  Mr.  Longfellow,  Mrs. 
Browning,  nor  SchefFer.  For  painting  and  sculpture  I 
have  some  talent,  I  believe, — I  don't  mean  to  under- 
value myself, — but  not  a,  spark  of  genius.  IS'ow  talent 
is  very  good  for  good  common  every-day  work  in  the 
world,  but  good  for  nothing  in  the  studio ^ 

"  But  I  enjoy  some  of  your  verses, — perhaps  I  had 
better  not  say  how  much.  Yon  do  not  like  flattery; 
I  do  not  like  vanity." — 

"  Because  I  wrote  them.  Psyche  V 

"  Yes ;  because  you  wrote  them  5<9," 

"  My  verses.  I  have  hoped  myself,  sometimes,  when 
I  have  heard  you  read  them,  that  there  might  be  some- 
thing in  them.  But  it  is  not  every  day,  nor  every 
week,  nor  month  even,  that  I  can  write  anything  that 
even  you  or  I  should  think  worth  reading ;  and  I  find 
little  breadth  or  richness  in  my  poetical  vein  just  now. 
One  should  live,  and  think,  and  feel  much, — and  suffer 
much,  too,  perhaps,  if  God  has  appointed  suffering  for 
him, — before  one  should  write  much.  If  I  made  it  my 
way  of  life  now  to  go  into  my  room  every  morning  to 
write,  it  would  soon  change  into  my  going  there  every 
morning  to  muse,  and  finally  to  read  and  doze,^amere 
literary  dilettante.  I  should  empty  into  two  or  three 
compositions  the  crude  accumulations  of  my  boyhood 
and  youth,  have  nothing  left,  and  write  nothing,  or,  still 
worse,  nonsense  or  namby-pamby ;  for  men  who  write 
at  all  times  because  they  will,  instead  of  sometimes  be- 
CMUse  they  must,  must  often  write  falsely  and  feebly. 


THE    AKMURY.  251 

Then,  feeling  that  I  had  staked  my  all  upon  a  a  cast, 
would  of  itself  be  enough  to  make  my  hand  shake.  In 
my  anxiety  lest  I  should  fail,  I  should  lose  the  calm- 
ness and  self-possession  essential  to  high  success.  My 
life  wants  at  least  two  strings  to  its  bow.  I  believe  that 
one  may  write  the  better  for  having  worked,  and  work 
the  better  for  having  written.  At  any  rate,  to  make 
one  single  poem  live,  the  life-blood  of  lively  living 
years  should  be  drained  into  it." 

''  Poems  are  vampires,  then,  and  that  is  the  reason 
why  you  are  sometimes  so  pale  when  you  have  been 
writing.  Write  no  more,  then.  You  may  give  up 
poetry." 

"iS'ever,  till  poetry  gives  up  me,  and  that  I  trust 
will  be  only  when  life  does, — nor  even  then,  or  I  should 
be  unsatisfied  with  heaven.  But  I  think  that  the  best 
poetry  is  oftenest  that  which  follows  up  a  man  in  the 
midst  of  affairs  and  forces  him  to  write  it,  not  that 
which  he  follows  up  apart  from  affairs,  and  forces  him- 
self to  write  ;  it  is  the  foam  which  rises  from  a  working 
life  ;  the  one  is  to  the  other  as  the  rainbowed  wreaths 
of  spray  of  Kiagara  to  a  bowl  of  soap-suds,  wliich  a 
child  puffs  up  into  bubbles  with  his  own  breath 
through  a  tobacco-pipe.  Few  men  are  strong  enough 
to  write  to  purpose,  who  are  not  also  strong  enough  to 
work  and  wait." 

"  And  you  think  that  your  work  is  not, — cannot  be, 
— in  the  ministry  ?"  said  Clara,  recurring  fondly  to  her 
first  idea.  "  Oh,  Herman,  how  I  should  love  to  hear 
you  preach  !" 

"  So  you  shall,  whenever  3'ou  please,"  said  he, 
smiling ;  "  and  so  shall  other  people,  whenever  they 
please  and  I  please.  I  will  be  a  minister,  God  willing; 
I  like  the  good,  humble,  old-fashioned  word.      I  wish 


252  HERMAN. 

to  try  to  carry  the  word  of  God  into  tlie  houses  of 
those  who  will  not,  or  who  cannot,  go  into  the  house 
of  God  to  seek  it.  I  have  heard,  and  I  suspect  it  is 
true,  that  many  or  most  of  those  who  hold  pews  in  our 
churches  are  so  well  instructed  in  their  religion  already, 
if  that  were  all,  that  they  could  at  need  preach  edify- 
ingly  enough  to  their  preachers  ;  so  that,  if  they  do  not 
do  their  duty,  the  difficulty  is  not  that  they  do  not 
know  it,  but  that  they  do  not  choose  it.  That  is  a  dif- 
ficulty which  I  must  leave  to  the  grace  of  God  to  con- 
quer. 1  wish  to  seek,  and  if  I  can,  save  some  of  those 
who  are  lost,  who  do  not  know  the  way,  who  are  be- 
wildered,— to  whom,  as  I  have  also  heard,  God  is 
known  as  a  being  less  horrible  than  Satan,  chiefly  in 
this  :  that  the  One  can  sometimes  be  permanently  pro- 
pitiated, and  the  other  not.  I  wish  to  go  to  them,  so 
far  as  an  uninspired  man  may,  as  the  apostles  did,  com- 
forting and  healing,  as  well  as  teaching.  If  I  can  do 
their  bodies  good,  they  may,  for  gratitude's  sake,  let 
me  do  what  I  can  for  their  souls;  and  then  I  will  try 
to  make  them  the  better  citizens,  better  men,  better 
Christians,  for  my  having  lived  beside  them.  Those 
who  seek  the  preacher  least  are  probably  those  who 
need  him  most ;  but  the  clergy  cannot  do  everything, 
and  should  not  have  everything  left  to  them  to  do.  I  be- 
lieve, as  I  have  hinted  before,  that  it  is  much  easier  for 
a  layman  than  for  a  clergyman,  to  get  at  a  very  large 
class  of  his  fellow-men.  A  clergyman  stands  a  little 
apart  from  them,  and  speaks  to  them  fi'om  above. 
A  physician  stands  at  their  side,  knows  where  their 
hearts  are,  and  can  speak  to  them  if  he  will.  More- 
over, my  Psyche,  to  end  where  we  began,  selfish  men, 
— and  most  men  are  selfish, — are  most  likely  to  do  their 
duty  when  it  falls  in  with  their  inclination  :  vny  inclina- 


THE    ARMORY.  253 

tion  draws  me  very  strongly  to  the  profession  of  medi- 
cine ;   and  therefore," 

Herman  went  to  work,  and  to  work  that  on  the 
whole  suited  him.  He  grew  more  cheerful,  though  not 
gay.  He  soon  found  that  the  good  solid  wheat,  "  the 
marrow  of  men,"  was  not  taken  out  of  his  bread  of  life, 
■if  the  spice  and  sweetness  were.  He  was  now  in  the 
(•>ndition  of  some  nice  little  boy,  who,  having  seen  a 
J  lum-cake  borne  by  him  on  its  way  to  the  oven,  and 
iidly  expected  to  banquet  thereon,  finds  himself  abrupt- 
ly set  down  to  bread  and  milk  instead,  with  an  order  to 
eat  it  up,  and  then  go  to  sleep.  Bread  and  milk  is  nu- 
tritious. It  is  not  altogether  unpalatable.  Yet  one 
would  hardly  require  him  to  smack  his  lips  over  it.  If 
he  makes  no  wry  faces,  he  does  pretty  well.  Herman 
did  not  smack  his  lips ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  took 
what  was  given  him  patiently,  and  made  no  wry  faces. 

If  his  life  was  no  longer  set  to  music,  at  least  he 
marched  on  without  it,  without  flagging ;  and  some  of 
the  poetry,  that  he  did  not  write,  he  acted.  But  this 
one  poem  must  have  been  written  not  very  far  from 
that  time.  I  found  it,  a  few  weeks  ago,  in  his  hymn- 
book  and  his  hand-writing,  in  the  family  pew  of  the 
Ardens  at  King's  Chapel.  It  appeared  to  have  been 
written  at  a  heat.  For  once  Herman  could  not  have 
been  very  attentive  to  the  sermon. 

Perhaps  few  Christians  could  in  that  place,  on  the 
black  spring-day  of  which  the  verses  bore  the  date; 
when,  not  many  rods  off  from  the  old  stronghold  of 
Freedom,  a  Boston  court-house  was  degraded  into  a 
slave-pen,  and  when  our  once  high-hearted  old  town, 
half  reennobled,  even  in  her  avaricious  and  outwitted 
dotage,  by  her  too  late-roused  indignation,  sat  shaking 
in  the  dust  in  chains  of  her  elder  sons'  forging,  while 


254  HEKMAN. 

her  younger  ones,  marching  in  arms  round  about  her, 
pointed  their  weapons  at  her  heart  to  keep  down  her 
impotent  rising. 

FANEUIL   HALL* 

"El  yap  t65'  eVrai, 
Ou*c  oI6'  AOrjva^  rdaS'  i\ev$epa<:  ert. 
'AW  olfi'  eyw  to  rijpSe  \rifia  Kol  ^v<ri,v' 
©vrjcTKetv  Oek'^crova'.   'ij  yap    alcrxvvri  irapoi 
ToO  ^rjv  nap'  eaOAoi?  avSpacny  »'o/xi^€Tai." 

Euripides. 

Ho,  here !  my  sturdy  brothers,  from  the  college  and  the  forge, 
Come  up  as  came  your  forefathers  to  blunt  the  tools  of  George ! 
Switter,  easier,  than  their  cart-horses,  from  Berkshire's  summits  far 
And  the  shores  of  sandy  Plymouth,  flies  for  you  the  panting  car. 
Leave  your  hali-bought  stock  uncheapened,  and  unsold  your  slaugh- 
tered flock; 
And  quench  the  match  just  lighted  in  the  gray,  old  granite  rock. 
Leave  the  hungry  cod  unbaited  in  the  waters  blue  and  still, 
And  hither  steer  your  dories  by  the  shaft  of  Bunker  Hill. 
Where  Lexington's  moist  clover  twinkles  in  the  morning  light, 
And  Dorchester's  gay  butter-cups  dance  on  her  storied  height. 
Let  your  ploughs  stick  in  the  furrows, — smoke  your  hay-cocks  in  the 

sun ; — 
Here  are  fetters  to  unrivet !     Freedom's  work  is  to  be  done ! 
With  eager  and  with  gallant  hearts  obey  the  welcome  call; 
For  a  suppliant  cowers  trembling  'neath  the  eaves  of  Faneuil  Hall. 

Rejoice,  thou  trembling  fugitive.    Were  hell-hounds  on  thy  track, 
Not  from  these  sacred  precincts  had  they  power  to  drag  thee  back. 
Our  three-hilled  city  owns  no  rule  save  that  of  equal  laws. 
Approach  her  grand  tribunal,  and  securely  plead  thy  cause. 
What!     Why?    Condemn  the  guiltless?    Away  with  all  your  fears  I 
He  asks  but  justice.     Try  him,  by  a  jury  of  his  peers. — 
There  is  no  room  for  them.     The  court  with  Slavery's  slaves  is  filled. 
Are  you  mad?    Speak  low.    Look  round  you.     Be  your  reckless 

brawlings  stilled; 
For  the  shadows,  and  the  footsteps,  of  hireling  soldiers  fall 
On  shackled  Justice's  threshold,  in  the  shade  of  Faneuil  Hall. — 


*  The  reader  who  would  not  be  more  nice  than  wise,  may  save 
himself  some  trouble  with  these  lines,  if  he  will  drop  the  new-fangled 
dactyUc  pronunciation  of  Fa7i-you-will, — supposing  him  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  have  ever  adopted  it, — and  content  himself,  as  Peter  of 
the  name  was  probably  obliged  to,  with  simple  "  Fan'il." 


THE     A^MOltY.  255 

Rejoice  thee  yet,  thou  fugitive !    Behold  these  free-bom  bands. 
The  swords  oi  patriot  ancestors  are  ghttering  in  their  hands ; 
And  heroes'  blood,  tuat  throbbed  of  yore  for  Freedom  and  the  right, 
Swells  in  then-  veins;  and  tyrants  must  fly  blasted  at  the  sight, 
And  leave  thee  free  as  heaven's  own  air  around  yon  hallowed  wall 
In  Freedom's  oracles  of  yore  breathed  forth  from  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Hope  not  in  them,  pjor  fellow-slave;  their  aid  is  not  for  thee. 
The  steel  thoy  bear  is  chains  they  wear, — the  chains  of  Tyranny. 
Fall  back,  ye  hapless  recreants  !— into  your  grandsh-es'  graves; 
Theii-  clapboard  ribs,  ii' empty  now,  ne'er  held  the  hearts  of  slaves; — 
Go,  with  your  snoriugs  wake  them  from  thefr  rest  well-earned  and 

deep; 
For  Liberty's  old  Cradle  has  rocked  all  their  young  to  sleep  ! 
Oh,  monument  of  Glory  dead,  to  shapeless  ruin  fall. 
Nor  mock  us  with  thy  memories,  polluted  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Farewell,  our  country's  cuckoo-brood, — the  brood  of  Sloth  and 

Gold  !— 
Our  country's  true-born,  to  the  front !     Her  cobwebbed  flags  untold. 
Oh  God  of  love,  unserved  too  long,  with  changing  mien  art  Thou, 
The  awful  God  of  battles,  our  only  helper  now  ? 
Leap  forth  then  clad  with  lightumgs,  from  Thy  black  and  bellowing 

cloud. 
With  Thy  forgotten  thunders  appal  the  craven  crowd. 
Om-  hves,  om-  youth,  our  manhood,  we  immolate  to  Thee. 
Take  all,  dread  God;  but  save  our  sons  our  birthiight,  Uberty. 
As  the  seed  of  better  ages  our  martyred  forms  shall  JaU. 
Om-  names  shall  be  the  household  words  for  aye  ofFaneuilHalL 

In  Tnine  uneiTing  balance  our  wavering  counsels  weigh 
For  strue  or  peace,  oh  God  of  grace,  this  dark  and  evil  day. 
Be  Thou  our  Light, — om*  Leader ! — Prompt  Thou  our  unlearned  parts. 
We  are  men,  and  blind  and  erring,  but  witu  brave  and  loyal  hearts. 
Choose  Thou  the  way.     We  fbliow  on  the  green  or  crimson  path, 
Through  the  lanes  of  Peace  and  Plenty  or  the  flre-sown  road  of 

Wrath. 
As  Freedom's  champions  let  us  live, — her  stainless  champions  .lie. 
And  in  oui-  blest  and  honored  graves  in  happy  slumbers  lie, 
Wiiere,  through  the  stillness  e'en  of  death>  twill  reach  our  half-roused 

ear. 
When  Freedom's  voice  is  raised  once  more,  and  shouting  freemen 

hear. 
As  he,  who  to  her  portal  fled  a  fearful  chattel  thrall. 
Hangs  up  his  shattered  fetters  o'er  the  gates  of  Faneuil  Hall. 


256  HERMAN. 


CHAPTER    XI L 

THE    KNIOHT    IN    THE    CAMP. 

"Earth  feels  new  scythes  upon  her. 
We  reap  our  brothers  for  the  wains, 

i?pnd  call  the  harvest  honor. — 
Draw  face  to  face,  front  line  to  line, 

One  image  all  inherit,— 
Then  kill,  curse  on,  by  that  same  sign. 
Clay,  clay, — and  spirit,  spirit." 

E.  B.  Browning. 

"Madam,  no. 
I  have  done  nothing;  if  a  wrong  there  be. 
It  lies  with  others;  I  have  but  obeyed 
Whom  I  am  bound  to  serve." 

"Alas!  thy  guilt 
Is  but  more  abject,  being  ministrant 
Unto  another's,  and  thyself  no  less 
Accountable  to  heaven." 

Taylor. 

Herman  in  due  time  took  his  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Medicine  ;  and  then,  being  by  that- time  in  some  need 
of  rest  and  recreation,  he  took  a  journey  with  a  three- 
fold motive  thereto  :  he  wanted  to  see  Kansas,  a  place 
of  which  we  all  hear  so  much  and  know  so  little  ;  he 
had  an  old  schoolmate  ill  in  the  army  there ;  and  a  kind 
new  friend  of  his,  his  schoolmate's  mother,  was  very 
unhappy  about  her  son,  and  anxious  to  have  him  re- 
sign and  come  home,  on  more  accounts  than  one. 
Herman  left  his  emigrant  fellow-travellers  at  the  little 
cluster  of  wooden,  mud,  and  thatched  houses,  which 
has  since  made  so  much  noise  in  the  world  under  the 


THE    KNIGHT    IN    THE    CAMP.  257 

name  of  Lawrence.  But,  as  he  rode  on  over  the  pur- 
ple and  golden  flowers  of  the  quiet  prame,  his  ears  still, 
for  an  hour  or  two  after,  seemed  to  ring  with  the  words 
which  he  had  left  behind,  ringing  through  the  streets 
of  that  busy  little  town  : 

"  Anticipate  I'll  have  much  difficulty  in  locating  a 
site,  sir?" 

"  Wall,  1  don't,  mum." 

"  Want  to  sell  jour  claim,  strannger  ?"       ♦ 

"  Wall,  I  don't  know.  How  much  do  ye  want  to 
give  ?" 

i'  Eeeder,"— 

"Whitfield,"— 

"  Stringfellow,"— 

"  How'd  tlie  voting  go,  up  to  Hobanob  Precinct  ? 
Yon  was  present,  sir,  I  presume." 

"  Well,  pretty  much  as  it  did  down  to  Bugaboo, 
sir ;  judges  disagreed.  Biggs  and  Sharp,  Pro-Slavery, 
they  thought  best  to  let  the  Ruffians  vote  without 
swearin.  Blunt,  Free-State,  he  dissented.  The  Ruf- 
fians got  some  leavers,  an  pried  up  the  cabin  an  let  it 
down  again  some  two  or  three  times  ;  an  Blunt,  he  at- 
tempted to  abstract  the  ballot-box  an  quit  the  premises  ; 
but  old  man  Firetur,  of  Mizzoura,  accompanied  with  his 
two  sons,  encountered  him  to  the  back  entrance,  an  put 
a  pistol  to  his  vest ;  an  says  he,  '  You  better  return  an 
deposit  that  there  box,  or  one  or  the  other  on  us  will 
land  in  hell,'  says  he, — '  or  eternity,'  I  forgit  which. — 
jS'ever  mind.     It's  all  the  same." 

"  Well,  yes,  sir ;  I  guess  it  was  in  that  case  about 
synonymous.     Purceed." 

"  '  Drop  it,'  says  Raymond  Firetur,  a-perducin  a 
revolver,  '  or  I'll  put  sixteen  through  ye.'  So  Blunt 
he  jest  dropped  it  an  resigned,  like  a  desperate  mean- 


268  HERMAN. 

spirited  feller  as  he  is ;  and  they  elected  old  man 
Firetur  judge,  in  lien  of  him  ;  an  he  an  the  other  Pro- 
Slaveries,  they  let  all  the  Kuffians  vote  themselves,  an 
put  down  lots  of  other  individooals  that  wa'n't  there 
besides, — Israel  Putnam,  an  Ben  Franklin,  an  George 
Washington,  Colonel  Freemont,  Sam  Slick,  Mr.  Garri- 
son, an  cetra. — They  got  the  returns  to  mount  up  to 
four  hunderd  an  up'ards ;  an  report  says  there  ain't 
more'n  *ne-twenty  legal  voters  in  that  whole  precinct." 

Then  these  echoes  died  out,  chased  away  into  the 
distance  by  the  sweet  voices  of  the  birds,  and  the  muf- 
fled patting  of  Herman's  horse's  hoofs  upon  the  turf 
He  enjoyed  the  charms  of  solitude  thoroughly,  after 
days  spent  in  cars,  steamboats,  and  inns,  but  had  had 
enough  of  it  before  he  came  in  sight  of  the  sentinel 
pacing  to  and  fro  before  the  temporary  barracks,  in 
which  Lieutenant  Charles  Marshall  was  at  present  in- 
dulging in  dreams  of  glory  and  realities  of  fever  and 
ague. 

Perhaps  Lieutenant  Charles  had  had  enough  of  it 
likewise;  for  his  "What?  who?  Arden  !  where  did 
you  drop  from  ? — oh,  by  George,  now,  if  this  isn't 
jolly !"  when  our  hero  was  introduced,  was  extremely 
emphatic  and  hearty.  He  was  miserably  ill,  thought 
himself  dangerously  so,  and  was  very  glad  to  get  Her- 
man's opinion  to  the  contrary,  as  w^ell  as  his  attentions  as 
nurse.  In  this  capacity,  Herman  devoted  himself  to 
him  for  a  fortnight,  and  so  successfully,  that  at  the  end 
of  that  time  he  thought  him  well  enough  to  discuss  hi^ 
resignation,  and  proposed  it  to  him  accordingly. 

"Why,"  said  the  lieutenant,  putting  his  hand  to 
his  pulse,  "  you  don't  think  I'm  going  to  relapse,  do 
you  ?" 

"No,  no.     Let  that  alone,  Charley.     You'll  only 


THE    KXIGHT    IN    THE    CAilP.  259 

put  it  out  of  order,  like  a  watch,  bj  fingering  it.  But, 
'  excuse  my  preaching  a  bit,'  as  I  heard  a  Methodist 
minister  sav,  in  the  steamboat  which  brought  me  down 
tlie  river ;  we  are  all  of  us  going  before  long  to  relapse 
into  second  childhood  or  death." 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  One  is  more  in  the  way  of 
second  childhood  out  of  the  army  than  in  it  ;  and  since 
death  must  come,  let  it  only  be  the  death  of  honor  and 
fame,  and  find  us  doing  our  duty." 

"  '  Let  it  only  find  us  doing  our  duty  ;'  yes,"  said 
Herman,  rather  sadly,  "  and  come  when  it  will.  But 
one  of  the  first  of  our  duties,  and  the  hardest,  too, 
sometimes,  is  to  find  out  what  our  duty  is.  Tell  your- 
self, Charley, — I  won't  ask  you  to  tell  me, — how  much 
honor  and  duty  there  is  in  selling  one's  sword  to  a  low- 
principled  Government,  as  you  won't  deny  that  ours  is 
just  now,  for  the  sake  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  year, 
of  figuring  now  and  then  in  a  paragraph  in  a  newspa- 
per, which  is  what  I  suppose  you  mean  by  fame,  and 
of  being  a  favorite  with  a  certain  class  of  ladies 
wherever  you  go,  on  account  of  your  blue  coat.  I  did 
not  mean  to  fi'ighten  you.  I  think  you  are  recovenng 
fast.  But  if  you  stay  in  the  army  here  and  now,  you 
may  certainly  be  shot  after  shooting,  in  obedience  to 
such  orders  as  you  may  any  day  receive,  some  honest 
settlers,  who  ask  only  to  be  let  alone,  and  would  rather 
not  do  you  any  harm,  if  they  had  their  choice  ;  and 
then,  in  the  grand  court-martial  over  the  clouds,  if  your 
Captain  asks  you  why  you  killed  his  servants,  your 
fellow-soldiers  in  the  church-militant,  shall  you  dare  to 
speak  of  this  sort  of  honor  and  duty  to  him  ?" 

"Why,  Arden,  this  seems  to  me  the  most  extraordi 
nary  way  of  looking  at  the  subject.     I  see  it  so  entii'ely 
on  the  other  side,  that," 


260  HEKMAN. 

"On  the  upper  side  ? — or  on  the  lower  side  ?  As  we 
hope  both  of  ns,  I  suspect,  to  spend  our  eternity  in 
heaven  above  rather  than  in  hell  beneath,  it  appears  to 
me  a  wise  plan  to  ascend  in  thought  as  often  as  we 
may  to  tlie  footstool  of  the  throne  of'  God,  and  take 
thence  our  views  of  earth  and  earthly  things,  that  they 
may  look  to  us  now  in  our  mortal  three-score  and  ten, 
as  they  will  hereafter  from  our  death-beds,  and  through 
the  countless  ages  of  our  immortality." 

"  Well,  then  ;  if  you  insist  upon  putting  it  on  that 
ground,  I  don't  see  howl  am  to  know  that  the  stranger 
I  shoot  in  a  crowd  is  a  Christian." 

"  How  are  you  to  know  that  he  is  not  ?  A  Ma- 
hometan, it  is  said,  will  not  destroy  a  stray  piece  of  pa- 
per without  examination,  because  the  name  of  Allah 
may  be  written  on  it.  Would  you  like  to  shoot  into  a 
crowd  where  you  knew  that  Christ  might  be  ?  Did  he 
not  say,  '  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  least 
of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me  ?'  " 

"  But  do  you  think  that  all  his  words  are  to  be  taken 
so  literally  ?" 

^'  1^0,  not  all ;  nor  yet  do  I  think  that  any  of  them 
are  to  be  explained  away  so  as  practically  to  mean  no- 
thing, which  is  the  more  common  error.  I  think  that, 
whenever  he  spoke,  he  meant  something.  What  do 
you  suppose  he  meant  when  he  said  that  ?" 
^  "Why,  —  I  don't  know;  —  in  the  way  of  one's 
duty,"— 

"  It  is  your  duty,  if  you  are  bidden,  to  kill  or  crush 
these  Free- State  settlers,  very  much  as  it  was  the  duty 
of  Alva  and  his  men  to  kill  and  crush  the  Nether- 
landers,  of  Judge  Jefireys  to  butcher  his  countrymen 
on  the  Bloody  Assizes,  or  of  the  Roman  soldiers  to 
crucify  our  Saviour.     Would  you  like,  for  the  sake  of 


THE  e:n'ight  m  the  ca^ip.  261 

present  glory  and  honor,  to  have  your  name  stand  be- 
fore posterity  beside  theirs  ?  Would  you  like  to  cast  in 
your  lot  with  theirs  in  the  other  world  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course  not ;  but,  as  to  the  Saviour  and 
those  words  of  his,  you  must  excuse  my  saying  again, 
that  I  think  you  are  very  literal  and  very  extrava- 
gant." 

"  Well,  let  it  pass  then  for  the  present ;  and  make 
up  your  mind  at  your  leisure  as  to  what  he  did  mean." 

"  Joshua  and  David  fought." 

"  But  we  must  remember  that  they  firmly  and  fully 
believed  that  God  was  on  their  side,  and  they  on  His. 
In  the  light  which  Christianity  has  thrown  on  the 
character  of  the  Father,  I  find  it  difiicult  to  assure  my- 
self that  He  ever  takes  a  pleased  part  in  the  domestic 
brawls  of  His  sons  ;  but  if  He  does, — He,  the  giver  of 
free  will, — I  know  and  am  sure  that  it  is  on  the  side 
of  freedom,  rather  than  of  slavery." 

"  There  again,  now, — there  again,  you  see,  there  is 
a  very  important  difiference  between  us  in  the  very 
grounds  we  stand  upon.  I  do  not  know  that  slavery 
is  wrong.     How  do  you  ?" 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  Charley !  For  shame,  Boston  boy  ! 
You  must  have  been  keeping  bad  company,  and  they 
have  stolen  your  wits.  How  do  you  know  that  twice 
two  is  four?  Is  there  any  such  anorpaly  or  miscalcu- 
lation in  the  creation,  as  that  the  Creator  should  send 
some  human  souls  into  the  world  with  several  hundred 
human  bodies  belonorinor  to  each,  and  some  thousands 
of  other  human  souls  into  the  world  with  no  bodies  be- 
longing to  them  at  all  ?  When  one  soul  can  wear  a 
hundred  bodies  at  a  time,  let  it  claim  them  as  its  own, 
and  not  till  then.  If  you  seriously  want  an  argument, 
though,  you  shall  have  it.     I  do  not  think  I  exaggerate 


262  HERMAN. 

when  I  assert  that  a  very  large  majority  of  persons  in 
civilized  countries  say  that  slavery  is  wrong.  The 
minority,  who  say  that  it  is  right,  are  for  the  most  part 
persons  whose  interests,  real  or  fancied,  bid-  them  say 
it  is  right.  N'ow,  the  presumption  is  very  strong  that 
a  thing,  which  almost  all  uninterested  persons^d enounce, 
and  few  except  interested  persons  uphold,  is  an  ofhnce 
which  deserves  no  c^^fence.  Then,  to  go  back  to 
Joshua  and  David,  we  must  further  remember  that 
they  were  not  Christians,  and  had  not  Christians  to 
fight  against.  I  think  we  may  get  a  little  side-light 
upon  the  Gospel  doctrine  of  social  duty  from  St.  Paul's 
consternation  at  finding  that  some  of  his  brethren  were 
going  to  law  against  one  another  before  the  unbelievers. 
How  little  he  probably  dreamed  that  the  name  of 
'  fellow-Christian,'  before  unbelievers  and  believers,  too, 
both  nominal  and  real,  would  soon  or  ever  get  to  be 
less  a  title  to  the  good-will  and  good  ofiices  of  one's 
sharers  in  it,  than  Odd-Fellow  is  now.  '  Why  do  ye 
not  rather  take  wrong  V  he  says.  '  Why  do  ye  not 
rather  be  defrauded  V  ". 

"  Would  you  be  a  non-resistant,  then  ?" 
"  I  cannot  say,  yes.  I  will  not  say,  no,  until  I  have 
lived  and  thought  longer,  and  sifted  the  matter  through 
and  through.  Thus  far  I  have  gone,  and  no  further  as 
yet :  The  whole  spirit  of  the  Gospel,  so  far  as  I  under- 
stand it,  is  tlie  spirit  of  filial  and  brotherly  love.  Can 
a  man,  full  of  this  spirit,  kill  his  brother,  his  Father's 
son  ?  Perhaps,  yes  ;  perhaps,  no.  But  can  he  kill  him 
for  the  sake  of  flattery,  or  pay,  or  promotion,  or  even 
to  enrich  any  of  his  favorite  brothers,  (i.  e.,  his  coun- 
trymen or  his  party,)  by  the  portion  of  that  one  ?  'No ; 
a  thousand  times,  no  !  But  may  he  not  kill  him  be- 
cause he  sees  him  lifting  his  hand  against  his  other 


THE    K^'IGHT    IN    THE    CAilP.  263 

brothers,  his  mother,  or  his  sisters,  or  their  helpless 
little  ones  ?  Yes,  perhaps,  if  there  be  no  other  way ;  but 
if  he  can  find  any  other  way,  he  will  thank  God,  and 
takeit.";- 

'' Ah,  well.  Xow  you  are  beginning  to  look  at  the 
other  sidaof  the  question  ;  and  your  own  good  sense  and 
candor  show  you  at  once  that  there's  a  great  deal  in  it. 
Any  soldier,  who  deserves  the  name,  is  glad  and  proud 
when  he  sees  the  pretty  girls  smiling  around  him,"  said 
the  lieutenant  sentimentally,  *'to  think  how  quickly  his 
sword  would  leap  out  of  the  handsome  scabbard,  wliich 
they  admire  so  much,  to  defend  them.  We  think  of 
that,  I  can  assure  you,  on  many  a  hard  marcL" 

''Marches  to  defend  them  against  home-keeping 
Mexicans, — against  squaws  and  papooses  ?  Ah,  Lieu- 
tenant, there's  a  good  deal  of  romance,  I  fear, — no,  call 
things  by  their  true  names, — a  good  deal  of  falsehood 
in  our  notions  of  war.  If  it  were  always  or  usually  in  de- 
fence of  mothers,  sisters,  and  wives,  or  even  of  our  altars 
and  hearths,  I  could  find  it  in  me  to  covet  that  sword  of 
yours,  and  to  wish,  too,  perhaps, — heaven  forgive 
me ! — that  I  might  soon  have  a  chance  to  draw  it.  But 
for  one  woman  who  is  really  protected  by  war,  are  not 
hundreds  made  orphans,  and  widows,  and  worse  ?  Let 
us  be  frank  with  ourselves  now,  as  our  Judge  will  be 
with  us  hereafter.  Thus  much  is  to  me  as  clear  as 
daylight :  defensive  war  only,  if  any  war,  is  permitted 
to  a  Christian." 

"  Very  well.  Let  it  be  granted  ;  and  see  what  comes 
of  it.  The  soldier  is  the  hand.  The  head  is  at  Wash- 
ington. The  head  opens  its  mouth,  and  says,  '  War 
exists  by  the  act  of  Mexico,  or  of  Xicaragua,  Kansas, 
or  Cuba,'  or,  *  Our  frontiers  need  protection  against  the 
Indians.'     Don't  vou  take?     Shall  the  hand  mutiny 


264  HERMAN. 

against  the  head  '^  The  head  says :  '  The  war  is  a  de- 
fensive war.  Carry  it  on.'  It  is  the  duty  of  the  head 
to  judge.     It  is  my  duty  to  obey." 

"Excuse  me.  In  my  judgment,  the  head  of 
Christian  men  is  overhea,d.  If  you  are  a  Christian 
man,  you  are  under  orders  which  take  precedence  of 
any  from  Washington." 

"  "Would  you  have  me  mutiny  whenever  orders  come 
which  I  don't  approve  ?" 

"  JN'ot  at  all.  When  orders  come,  too  bad  for  you 
to  obey,  I  would  have  you  resign." 

"Suppose  the  orders  came  at  such  a  moment,  that 
my  resignation  would  leave  my  innocent  troops  at  the 
mercy  of  an  enemy.     What  should  you  say  then  ?" 

"N^othing,  my  poor  dear  fellow.  Your  situation 
would  be  cruel  enough  in  itself  I  should  not  have 
the  heart  to  embitter  it  further  by  a  single  word  of 
mine." 

"Well,  what  should  you  think,  then? — You  are 
checkmated  now,  I  believe." — 

"Do  you?  My, predominant  idea  would  probably 
be,  that  if  you  had  had  any  reason  to  foresee  the  possi- 
bility of  a  dilemma  so  horrible,  compelling  you  to  be 
accessory  to  the  destruction  of  one  of  two  innocent 
parties,  it  was  utterly  incomprehensible  that  you  should 
have  waited  to  be  caught  in  it." 

"  But  you  tell  me  I  may  fight  in  defence  of  my 
country ;  and  I  tell  you,  that  I  am  not  the  judge  of  the 
character  of  her  wars.  It  is  to  be  taken  for  granted  that 
Congress  knows  what  it  is  about." 

" '  Half  the  mistakes  in  life,'  according  to  a  most 
sensible  maxim,  '  arise  from  taking  things  for  granted.' 
You  are  an  educated  man,  an  intelligent  man,  and,  if 
you   are  also   a  conscientious  man,  you  have  certain 


THE  k:night  es^  the  camp.  2G5 

qualifications  as  a  judge,  of  your  own  conduct  at  least, 
which  it  would  he  taking  a  good  deal  for  granted  to 
attrihute  to  the  common  run  of  '  available  candidates' 
turned  into  members  of  Congress." 

"  You  are  complimentary ;  and  in  return  I  can  do 
no  less  than  tell  you,  that  I  never  in  my  life  saw  such 
an  impracticable,  theoretical,  wrong-headed,  good- 
hearted  fellow.  Kide  your  hobby  as  far  as  you  can,  in 
the  name  of  absurdity;  and  let  us  see  where  it  will 
throw  you.  You'll  allow  at  least,  I  hope,  that  we  must 
have  armies  in  readiness  to  protect  our  native  coun- 
tries, in  the  present  state  of  this  naughty  world?" 

"  I  am  not  prepared  to  deny  it." 

"Hurra  I  Hup^ — laqj !  We've  kept  step  together 
at  last,  like  ^qo^  jplebes^  for  one  whole  second.  Xow, 
if  I  and  my  fellow-warriors  are  all  of  us  going  to  resign 
whenever  we  are,  or  fear  we  are  perhaps  going  to  be, 
ordered  to  do  anything  that  isn't  quite  proper,  what 
will  become  of  all  the  armies  ?" 

"  AYhat,  indeed !  Don't  you  think  you  shall,  some 
of  you,  wait  till  next  week?  You  won't  quite  all  throw 
up  your  commissions  to-night ;  shall  you  ?" 

"  You  think  we  ought,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  think  tliou  oughtest ;  what  will  my  oj)inion  sig- 
nify to  anybody  else  ?  My  business  is  with  thee, — thine 
with  thyself.  Do  you  not  remember  what  our  Master 
said  to  St.  Peter, — when,  after  receiving  a  command 
and  having  his  destiny  pointed  out  to  him,  he  turned  to 
look  after  his  fellow-disciple,  and  asked,  'Lord,  and 
what  shall  this  man  do?' — 'What  is  that  to  thee?  Fol- 
low thou  me.'  If  we  wait  to  do  our  own  duty  until  we 
can  decide  what  is,  in  every  conceivable  circum- 
stance, the  duty  of  everybody  else,  we  are  as  reasona- 
ble, my  patient,  as  we  should  be  if  we  refused  to  do  an 


266 


HERMAN. 


errand  at  the  nearest  town  until  we  had  drawn  out  the 
chart  of  the  universe.  A  nephew  of  William  Pitt,  I 
have  heard,  resigned  his  commission  in  the  British 
army,  rather  than  serve  against  us  in  our  Revolutionary 
war.  Still  England  fought  us,  to  her  cost.  An  officer 
in  our  army, — so  his  own  cousin  told  me,^efl  it  when 
called  upon  to  help  the  Georgians  to  the  homes  of  the 
hospitable  and  friendly  Cherokees.  Still  the  Chero- 
kees  were  driven  out.  Do  you  honestly  think  that,  if 
you  follow  the  example  of  those  two  gentlemen,  there'll 
be  any  difficulty  in  refilling  your  place  at  once?  Fntil 
a  great  revolution,— a  great  regeneration,  to  use  the 
clerical  word, — has  taken  place  in  the  moral  sense  of 
the  world  on  the  subject  of  w^ar,  the  army  will  not  be 
dismembered  by  Christianity,  nor  will  there  be  by  any 
means  much  difficulty  in  finding  officers  and  soldiers 
enough  to  march  out  readily  for  aggressive  warfare. 
When  that  great  regeneration  has  taken  place,  it  will 
pervade  the  community  and  cabinet  as  much  as  tho 
camp;  and  Christian  officers  and  soldiers  will  never 
more  be  ordered  out  for  aggressive  warfare ;  no  great 
change  for  the  worse,  surely ;  and  every  man,  who  haa 
done  anything,  in  cabinet,  camp,  or  community,  towards 
bringing  it  about,  will  have  struck  a  noble  blow  in  the 
good  fight  for  the  establishment  of  Christ's  kingdom  on 
earth.  We,  nominal  Christians,  are  as  heathen  still  in 
council  and  cauip  as  Homer's  heroes.  A  corrupt  knot 
of  office-holders  want  an  unjust  war  for  their  own  inter- 
est. There  is  an  outcry  against  it,  at  first,  among  good 
Christians  at  home.  Good  Christians  in  the  army  sigh 
over  it ;  because  their  true  hearts  tell  them  that  it  is 
unnatural  work  for  them  to  despoil  and  destroy  their 
brothers;  but,  because  their  sophistical  heads  assure 
them  that  it  is  their  duty,  they  march  off"  and  do  it. 


THE    KNIGHT    IN    THE    CX^SIF.  267 

notwithstanding,  as  obediently  as  if  they  were  b-^d 
Christians  or  good  Pagans.  In  compliance  with  the 
wishes  of  their  fellow-Chnstians  at  Washington,  or 
London,  or  Paris,  or  Vienna,  they  take, — we  won't 
say  steal, — the  required  number  of  towns  from  their 
fellow-Christians  over  the  border,  and  kill, — we  won't 
sry  murder, — the  necessary  number  of  their  fellow- 
Christians,  the  owners,  for  defending  them  as  it  is  their 
duty  to  do.  (What  is  the  fountain-head  of  duty  to  all 
Christians,  but  the  will  of  Christ?  Can  Christ  give 
conflicting  orders  to  his  servants  ?  Can  he  smile  to  see 
them  kill  one  another  ? — he,  who  is  '  with  them  alway, 
even  unto  the  end  of  the  world  V  If  their  faith  had 
eyes  strong  enough  to  see  him  stand  by  and  look  on, 
could  they  slay  on  i)  However,  their  notable  victories 
over  their  brothers  abroad  soon  reconcile  their  brothers 
at  home  to  the  war.  It  becomes  popular.  The  oflice- 
holders  gain  their  objects ;  and  the  success  of  their  expe- 
dient is  noted  as  a  good  hint  for  future  use.  The  army 
are  said  to  have  covered  themselves  with  glory.  Is 
that,  their  glory  so-called,  the  reward  of  loyal  soldiers, 
deserters,  or  fratricides?  Is  it  their  King's  cause,  or 
that  of  the  arch-Rebel,  in  which  they  have  fought  ?  Is 
it  Christ's  crown,  or  one  of  Satan's  weaving,  which  sits 
upon  the  baptismal  spot  on  their  foreheads  ?  If  our 
fellow-Christians  are  not  onr  brothers,  as  St.  Paul  calls 
them,  in  some  strong  and  binding  sense,  it  is  as  false  as 
Satan  in  us  to  call  them  so,  over  our  Bibles,  or  at 
church,  or  anywhere  else.  If  they  are  oar  brothers,  it 
is  as  cruel  as  Cain  in  us  to  kill  them,  for  anv  orrndo^e 
against  them  of  our  own  or  another's.  What  shall  we 
say,  then,  of  sacrificing  our  Master  in  the  person  of 
his  followers  for  self-interest  ?  Is  not  that  a  little  too 
much  like  Judas  ?" 


2(>8  HEKMAJ^". 

''  Psliaw,  Arden,  pshaw !  You  talk  like  a  woman. 
You've  nursed  me  like  one,  too,  though ;  so  I'll  forgive 
jou." 

"  Like  what  sort  of  a  woman,  Marshall  ? — a  good,  or 
a  bad  ? — If  the  former,  I  have  a  good  right  to  be  lis- 
tened to,  when  I  speak  to  a  question  of  right  and 
wrong.     Like  what  woman  ?" 

"  Like  a^yery  good  and  dear,  but  a  very  trying  one 
to  me  sometimes,  I  must  say ;"  answered  Marshall, 
rising  and  walking  up  and  down  the  room.  "  I  dare 
say  she  sent  you  here  to  look  after  me.  God  bless  3'OU 
both  !  You  came  when  you  were  a  good  deal  wanted. 
She's  a  dear,  tender,  afiectionate  soul,  and  always 
means  well  and  kindly  by  me,  I  believe;  but  I  suffer  not 
the  woman  to  teach  nor  to  usurp  dominion  over  the 
man  ;  do  you  ?" 

"  '  To  teach  V  Yes,  if  she  is  modest  and 
quiet  about  it;  as  St.  Paul's  own  friend,  Priscilla, 
seems  to  have  been  suffered.  '  To  usurp  dominion  V 
'No.  1  suffer  no  usurpation  anywhere,  that  it  lies  with 
me  to  forbid.  It  seldom  works  well  for  either  party  con- 
cerned in  it.  If  a  woman, — or  a  child  even, — pointed 
out  to  me  a  wrong  that  I  was  doing,  or  a  duty  left  un- 
done, I  should  consider  her  words  a  message  from  God 
to  me,  perhaps  in  answer  to  my  prayers  for  guidance, — 
an  answer  that  I  must  take  or  go  without  any, — and 
her  a  messenger,  provided  she  spoke  in  a  proper 
spirit." 

"  My  mother  is  extravagant  the  moment  she  gets 
beyond  her  province,  —  extravagant  to  a  degree! 
I  should  not  say  so  to  anybody  else,  you  know ;  but  to 
you  I  may,  because  you  know  how  much  good  sound 
sense  and  feeling  she  has  in  matters  she  does  under- 
stand.    What  do  you  think  she  said  to  me  the  very 


THE    KNIGHT    IN    THE    CAMP.  209 

night  before  I  left  home  to  come  here? — That  she 
would  rather  I  should  be  killed  by,  than  kill,  any  of 
these  haranguing  Yankee  dod-hojyjyers !  And  she  a 
widow,  and  I  her  only  son,  and  the  tears  streaming 
down  her  poor  old  face  at  the  time  at  such  a  rate  that 
I  couldn't  bear  to  see  it !  What  do  you  think  of  that 
yourself?'- 

"  There  spoke  the  Christian  Spartan, — the  Spartan 
matron,  for  she  preferred  your  honor  to  your  life, — the 
Christian,  for  she  preferred,  your  loyalty  to  Christ  to 
either !  She  would  rather  have  3^our  body  spotted 
with  your  own  blood,  (though  I  believe  it  would  kill 
her,  Charley ;  for  1  must  tell  you  that  her  anxiety  about 
you  is  preying  upon  her  constitution  seriously,)  than 
your  soul  with  the  blood  of  your  neighbour.  The  one 
stain  would  last  a  little  longer  than  the  other.  She  is 
less  near-sighted  than  most  people,  and  can  see  beyond 
the  grave  ;  that  is  all." 

"  Well,  one  of  you  is  as  bad  as  the  other.  But 
after  all,  Arden,  there's  more  than  one  flaw  in  your 
reasoning,  that -I  should  have  picked  before,  if  I  could 
have  got  a  chance.  Religion  has  nothing  to  do  with 
these  worldly  matters,  as  I  have  often  told  her." 

"  What  has  it  to  do  with  us,  then,  while  we  are  in 
the  world  ?" 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I.  It  teaches  us  that  we  must 
pray," 

"  One  way,  and  live  another  ?" 


"  And  read  our  Bibl-es," 

"And  not  obey  them?" 

"  Our  Bibles  say,  '  Bender  unto  Csesar  the  things 
that  are  Caesar's,'  " 

"  ^And  unto  God  the  things  that  are  God's ' ;  but  no- 
where, Render  yourself  unto  Caesar,  if  I  recollect  right 


2  70  HERMAN. 

Our  master  is  Christ  He  bids  us,  upon  our  allegiance, 
do  good  and  no  wrong  to  our  neighbour.  If  we  think 
we  can,  while  in  his  service,  enter  into  some  more 
lucrative  or  honored  service  besides,  we  may  do  so 
unblamed  ;  but  we  do  so  at  our  peril,  for,  the  moment 
the  second  service  conflicts  with  the  first,  we  must 
abandon  the  second  or  be  traitors.  '  Loyalty  first,  lucre 
afterwards.  Merit  first,  applause  afterwards.  Christ 
first,  Caesar  afterwards.'  You  understand,  I  trust,  all 
this  time,  that  I  am  not  maintaining  that  Christianity 
calls  upon  us  for  an  armed  resistance  to  unrighteous- 
ness. For  a  passive  resistance,  it  does  call  upon  us 
continually.  If  there  is  a  genuine  hero  on  earth,  in 
my  judgment  it  is  an  independent  man,  who,  when 
driven  to  the  wall  by  some  unholy  custom  or  law, 
breaks  it  by  his  action,  and  mends  it  by  his  sufifering. 
He  is  a  Daniel  in  the  palace  of  Nebuchadnezzar.  He 
serves  God  peaceably,  in  spite  of  the  king,  and  takes 
the  consequences.  Unflinchingly  he  goes  into  the 
lions'  den,  and  brings  out  of  it  liberty  of  conscience 
henceforward,  not  merely  for  himself,  but  for  his  more 
timid  brethren.  The  doctrine  of  individual  responsi- 
bility and  allegiance  to  God,  is  the  very  corner-stone  of 
religion.  As  long  as  allegiance  and  responsibility  to 
man  are  allowed  to  take  its  place,  it  will  be  difticult  to 
find  anything  too  bad  for  good  men  to  do.  Christianity 
is  the  leaven  which  creeps  through  the  meal,  not  all  at 
once,  but  particle  by  particle,  until  the  w^hole  is  leav- 
ened. Its  work  upon  society,  under  God,  must  be 
done,  if  at  all,  like  that  of  its  Founder,  by  individual 
action  and  individual  sufifering.  It  is  scarcely  possible 
for  any  individual  in  the  midst  of  a  fallen  race  to  stand 
upright  towards  God,  without  doing  something  by  the 
very  act  to  raise  those  above  him,  and   taking  some 


THE    KNIGHT    IX    THE    CAMP.  271 

weight  off'  those  below  him.  We  are  all  of  us,  by  our 
own  low  standard  of  loyalty,  helping  to  keep  each 
other  down." 

"  These  fine-spun  considerations  may  be  all  very 
well  for  ministers,  martyrs,  and  professed  followers  of 
Christ ;  but  flaw  the  second  is,  that  you  continually 
talk  of  my  loyalty  and  allegiance  to  him,  when  1  have 
never  promised  him  any,  and  never  will,  till  I  am  pre- 
pared, consistently,  honorably,  and  in  all  respects,  to 
fulfil  my  engagements,  whatever  they  may  bind  me  to. 
I  am  not  a  member  of  the  church,  my  dear  Arden. 
Did  you  think  that  I  was  ?" 

"  In  a  certain  way.  I  supposed  that  you  had  been 
baptized  into  it." 

''  Of  course,  when  I  was  a  baby  ;  but  that  was  no 
affair  of  mine." 

"  You  were  entered  in  the  church,  then,  before  you 
entered  the  army.  So  far,  the  church  would  seem  to 
have  the  prior  claim  to  you,  not  to  speak  of  your  being 
God's  by  creation.  I  will  say  nothing  of  your  being 
Christ's  by  redemption  ;  because  I  do  not  know  whether 
you  will  or  will  not  choose  to  accept  the  terras  on 
which  that  is  offered  you.  But  if  the  claims  of  the 
church  and  those  of  the  army  upon  you  conflict,  which 
do  you  mean  to  abide  by  ?  As  you  say,  I  don't  think 
your  being  baptized,  by  the  will  of  others,  binds  you 
in  honor,  though  it  may  somewhat  in  gratitude," 

''  There's  no  use  in  talking.  I  cannot,  at  present, 
give  up  my  profession." 

"  If  you  are  not  ready  at  any  moment,  at  any  cost, 
to  give  up  anything  in  order  to  follow  Christ,  go  into 
the  church,  Marshall,  to  whose  altar  your  mother  car- 
ried you  in  her  arms.  Go  when  its  members  are  all 
assembled  to  welcome  some  other  child  into  its  fold. 


272  HERMAN. 

Go  not  in  bravado,  but  in  sober  sadness.  Dip  your 
hand  into  the  font  before  them  all,  and  say,  With 
this  hand  I  wash  from  my  brow  that  sign  which  you 
laid  upon  it,  but  which  it  has  proved  unworthy  to 
wear.  A  follower  of  Christ  I  cannot  be.  My  sandals 
are  not  stout  enough  to  follow  his  bare  and  bleeding 
feet  through  low  and  thorny  ways  ;  and  he  who  is  not" 
with  him  is  against  him.  A  hypocrite  I  will  not  be. 
If  I  range  myself  on  Satan's  side,  at  least  it  shall  be 
under  no  false  colors. — You  could  not  do  it,  Marshall. 
An  unchristian  man  you  think  you  can  make  up  your 
mind  to  be  ;  but  an  un christened  one  you  would  not. 
Yet  Christ  said  not,  He  who  merely  does  not  deny  me 
before  men,  'I  will  confess  before  my  Father  Who  is 


We  dispute  Christ's  claims  upon  us;  we  would  not 
consent  to  cast  from  us  a  tithe  of  our  claims  upon  him ; 
yet  what  is  baptism  but  an  empty  form, — a  desecrated 
form, — if  the  spirit  be  not  washed,  but  only  the  body  ? 
It  is  so  with  us  almost  all.  We  cling  to  the  Christ  with 
one  hand  ;  and  we  push  away  the  Cross  with  the  other. 
We  would  have  his  wages, — not  his  work.  We  take 
our  stand  on  this  world  with  both  feet,  and  lay  hold 
on  the  threshold  of  heaven's  gate  with  just  so  many 
unwilling  lingers  only,  as  we  think  may  enable  ns  to 
vault  in,  when  we  feel  that  at  last  the  slippery  earth  is 
rolling  from  underneath  us,  and  that  we  must  go  some- 
where else, — a  desperate  and  disgraceful  game  to  play ! 
You  cannot  make  np  your  mind  to  be  altogether  Sa- 
tan's. Be  altogether  God's^  then,  for  integrity's,  and 
loyalty's,  and  honor's  sake !  St.  Paul  bids  us,  '  Be 
not  conformed  to  this  world,  but  be  ye  transformed 'by 
the  renewing  of  your  minds ;' — a  task  hard  enough  for 
most  of  us  to  acliieve  in  the  time  given  us  to  do  it  in, 


thp:  kjs'ight  in  the  camp.  273 

yet  not,  it  would  seem,  hard  enough  to  satisfy  our  am- 
bition ;  for  we  most  of  us  choose  a  harder,  saving  to 
ourselves,  'Be  conformed  to  this  world,  but  be  ye 
transformed  bv  the  renewing  of  your  minds' ;  and  in 
the  self-contradictory  endeavour  to  accomplish  this,  we 
spend  our  strength  and -life  in  vain,  succeeding  only  in 
the  first  half  of  it.  Xo  ;  this  world  is  not  yet  con- 
formed to  Christianity,  nor  can  we  yet  be  transformed 
by  Christianity,  while  conforming  oure elves  to  tlie 
world.  It  is  a  less  unchristian  world  than  it  was, 
thanks  to  the  saints  of  eighteen  centuries,  who  have 
lived  and  died  to  make  it  so  ;  but  its  every  unwilling 
step  towards  righteousness  has  been  planted  on  the 
heart  of  some  faithful  servant  of  Christ,  whom  it  tram- 
pled under  its  feet  for  dragging  it  forward,  but  who,  if 
he  died  himself,  left  his  impetus  ahve  in  it.  It  will 
not  be  a  Christian  world,  nor  a  world  in  which  one  can 
be  a  Christian,  yet  conformed  to  it,  until  it  has  been 
dragged  on  and  up  for  centuries  again  by  men  animated 
with  the  spirit  of  the  apostolic  age.  Thanks  to  the 
faithful  men  of  that  age,  it  has  lowered  its  tone  a  little 
since  their  day  ;  but  everywhere, — in  every  path  in 
life,  in  the  camp,  the  courts,  the  church,  the  shop,  the 
hall  of  legislature, — it  meets  us,  still  the  same  perverse 
old  world  that  tried  to  face  them  down,  but  tried  in 
vain,  thanks  to  their  faith  that  we  have  not,  and  their 
manhood  that  we  have  not,  and  their  Master  that  we 
have,  and  deny,  through  our  thoughtlessness  and 
cowardice  and  paltriness,  at  every  turn.-  Afraid  or 
ashamed  any  longer  to  say  to  us,  '  Be  conformed  to  me 
on  pain  of  the  nails,  the  lions,  the  rack,  or  the  stake,' 
it  still  says,  '  Be  conformed  to  me  on  pain  of  loss,  dis- 
credit, insult,  plainer  clothes,  a  smaller  house,  or  harder 
fare  ;'  while  still,  as  in  those  old  days  in  Judea,  the 
12* 


2Ttt  HEKMAX. 

voice  of  the  Saviour  answers  low  and  solemnly,  '  What 
shall  it  profit  a  man,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world, 
and  lose  his  own  soul  V  Whose  voice  of  the  two  we 
are  following,  Marshall,  you  and  I,  we  must  judge  for 
ourselves,  until  Christ  judges  for  us;  but  the  soldier, 
who  puts  up  his  sword  into  the  sheath  in  obedience  to 
orders  brought  him  by  the  telegraph  of  conscience  from 
his  Commander-in-chief  at  the  right  hand  of  God,  ra- 
ther than  carry  out  the  bloody  designs  of  some  mutinous 
Satan-serving  human  subaltern, — the  judge  who,  in  sub- 
mission to  the  decrees  of  the  Judge  of  the  Supremest 
Court,  puts  his  ermine  oiF  rather  than  dabble  it  in  the 
gory  mud,  following  a  lackey  at  the  heels  of  Tyranny, 
— the  young  preacher  who  comes  down  from  the  pul- 
pit where  he  hoped  to  wear  his  hoary  hairs  one  day, 
rather  than  keep  back  God's  truth,  or  utter  a  lie 
therein, — the  merchant,  who  lets  his  profits  go,  that  he 
may  hold  fast  his  principles, — the  statesman,  who  sits 
down  in  patient  obscurity,  rather  than  serve  a  faction 
against  God  and  his  country, — nay,  even  the  poor  un- 
derling, who,  with  a  needy  family,  refuses,  in  the  name 
of  Christ,  to  help  serve  a  false  warrant,  and  takes  the 
consequences  with  him,  instead  of  food  and  clothing,  to 
his  home, — all  these,  glory  be  to  them !  They  are  doing 
what  it  is  their  duty  to  do,  though  no  more.  It  may 
not  be  much, — not  much  compared  with  the  doings 
and  sufferings  of  the  first  martyrs  and  confessors; — but 
it  will  be  something  to  keep  them  from  hanging  their 
heads  in  utter  shame,  when  the  glorious  company  of 
those  first  martyrs  shall  open  its  shining  ranks  to  re- 
ceive them  to  its  bosom." 

"  How  could  the  afi'airs  of  the  world  ever  be  car- 
ried on,  if  your  principles  prevailed  ?" 

"  As  we   pray  every  day  that  they  may  be   car- 


TllK     KXIGHT    IN    THE    (AMP.  27  "> 

ried  on,  Tliy  will,  oh  God,  being  done,  on  earth  as  it 
is  in  heaven  !" 

''But  what  a  condition  a  man  would  be  in,  if  his 
religion  was  liable  any  day  to  drag  him  away  from  his 
business !'' 

"  In  no  worse  a  condition  than  those  first  Christians, 
who  were  liable  any  day,  for  the  sake  of  their  religion, 
to  be  dragged  from  their  business  to  torture  and  death. 
Christ  said,  '  If  any  man  hate  not  his  father,  and  mo- 
ther, and  wife,  and  children,  and  brethren,  and  sisters, 
yea,  and  his  own  life  also,  he  cannot  be  my  disciple.'  " 

"  That  was  in  the  first  age  of  the  church." 

"  He  said  it  in  some  sense,  I  think,  for  all  time. 
The  world's  exactions  have  l)een  a  little  lessened  since. 
That  was  God's  demand,  like  Himself,  unchangeable. 
There  was  no  partiality  there.  The  outward  condition 
of  later  Christians  has  been  softened,  as  I  said,  through 
the  hardships  conquered  by  those  earlier  ones  ;  but 
there  are  still  strongholds  of  evil  to  be  brought  down, 
still  martyrdoms  to  be  suffered,  and  still  palms  unwon. 
Heaven  and  heavenly  glory  are  still  offered  to  us  on 
the  same  inward  conditions  that  they  were  to  them, — 
no  easier,  no  harder." 

"  Can  you  fulfil  those  conditions,  as  you  understand 
them,  yourself,  Arden  ?" 

"  I  have  been  trying  for  three  or  four  years  past  to 
train  myself  to  fulfil  them,"  answered  Herman,  sim- 
ply;  "but  I  have  been  surprised  to  find  what  up-hill 
work  it  is.  If  I  can  say  forty  or  fifty  years  hence,  on 
my  death-bed,  that  I  have  succeeded  at  last,  I  shall 
think  that  I  have  done  a  pretty  good  life's  work." 

"  Do  you  mean,  then,  to  denounce,  and  expect  me 
to  denounce,  all  professional  soldiers,  who  merely  obey 
orders  through  thick  and  thin,  as  no  Christians  ?" 


276  HERMAN. 

"By  no  means.  To  their  own  ni  rioter  let  then: 
stand  or  fall.  The  Gospel  has  always  appeared  to  me 
a  code  of  laws  marvellously  adapted  for  a  man's  using 
in  his  judgments  of  himself, — marvellously  adapted  for 
his  not  using  to  pass  judgment  upon  his  neighbours." 

".Then,  Arden,  why  do  you, — why  will  you, — use 
it  to  pass  judgment  upon  me  ?" 

"  Have  I  been  arrogant  ?"  said  Herman,  stopping 
short,  and  putting  the  question  to  himself  as  much  as 
to  his  friend. 

"  Not  you.     'No,  no.     Forgive  me." 

"  It  is  a  bad  tone,  that  one  gets  insensibly  in  politi- 
cal wrangling ;  but,  indeed,  I  did  not  mean  to  use  it 
towards  you.  I  fancied  myself  all  this  time  not  your 
judge,  but  your  advocate,  pleading  your  cause  against 
the  adversary  of  all  souls.  If  I  was  bitter,  it  was 
against  him,  not  you,  my  dear  old  fellow." 

"  There  is  no  bitterness,  I  believe,  Arden,  that  your 
look  and  voice  could  not  sweeten,  to  any  one  who  in 
my  circumstances,  sick,   and   alone,  and   forlorn,   had 

learned  to Pshaw !  pshaw !  I'm  too  well   now  to 

have  an  excuse  for  sentimentalizing,  or  for  being 
peevish,  either.  Go  on.  But  suppose  I  can't  under- 
stand what  the  Gospel  requires  of  me  ?" 

"  Can't  you  ?  or  won't  you  ?—  /Shall  1  go  on  ? — In 
either  case,  you  will  not  be  a  very  valuable  servant, 
and  must  not  expect  high  wages.  No  ;  I  will  not  put 
it  on  so  low  grounds  ; — you  will  hear  no  word,  '  Well 
done  !'  Did  not  you  hear  what  your  Georgian  major, 
— what's  his  name  ?     Anathema  ?" — 

"  No,  Annameth," — 

"  Oh,  y.es, — said  to  his  black,  Pete,  the  other  morning, 
when  he'd  done  something  more  ingeniously  blundering 
than  usual,  and  made  some  such  excuse  for  111     With 


THE     KXIGHT    LN    THE    CAMP.  1:  »  I 

more  oaths  than  I  shall  repeat,  (partly  because  they  were 
more  tlian  I  can  remember,  and  partly  because  I  won't 
teach  my  tongue  the  trick  of  them,)  he  inquired,  patly 

enough,  as  I  thought,  '  You scoundrel, 

you,  why  the didn't  you  understand  V  " 

"  He  does  swear,  doesn't  he  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  should  think  he  would  want  to,  sometimes. 
Slaveholding  is  certainly  one  of  those  sins,  which  bring 
their  own  punishment  with  them. — Your  mental  un- 
derstanding is  good  enough.  The  defect,  if  there  is 
any,  must  be  in  your  morale.  The  great  Physician 
had  healing  for  the  blind,  but  not  for  those  who  wil- 
fully shut  their  eyes.  If  you  can  see,  but  will  not,  you 
must  set  your  highest  hopes  on  being  suffered  in  hea- 
ven as  a  penitent  sinner,  not  welcomed  as  a  victorious 
saint.  The  triumph  of  the  saints  who  follow  you  will 
be,  not  the  having  completed,  but  having  undone,  the 
work  you  did  on  earth.  Where  will  be  your  point  of 
sympathy  with  them,  or  theirs  with  you,  or  y^urs  with 
Christ  ?" 

"  Arden,  I  should  not  have  been  petulant ;  but  the 
fact  is,  that  you  give  me  more  pain  than  you  think. 
I  am  not  altogether  so  thoughtless  and  heartless  a  fel- 
low as  you  may  consider  me.  In  sickness  and  solitude, 
a  man  often  gets  morbid ;  and  you  bring  up,  only  a 
great  deal  more  vividly,  ideas  that  haunted  and  tor- 
mented me  miserably  in  the  first  of  my  illness,  before 
you   came   to   cheer   me   up  and  set  me  on  my  legs 


again." 


"  Perhaps,  too,  you  think  that  I  owe  you  an  apol- 
ogy, my  dear  Marshall,  as  a  citizen,  for  undertaking  to 
express  an  opinion  upon  your  position  in  the  army 
here ;  and  so,  perhaps,  I  do,  if  I  have  not  taken  my 
opinion  from    you  ;   but  I  thought  that  I  had,  from 


278 


HEKMAN. 


things  you  have  been  letting  fall  incidentally  ever  since 
I  came.  If  yon  heartily  believe  upon  good  grounds, 
that  you  are  likely  to  be  called  on  here  only  to  protect 
good  citizens,  not  to  persecute  them,  my  strictures  upon 
offensive  warriors  don't  apply  to  you.  Christianity 
has  to  do  with  general  principles ;  individual  Christians, 
with  the  particular  application  of  them,  I  admit.  Judge 
of  your  own  duty,  then,  on  your  own  responsibility ;  but 
judge  impartially,  for  the  sake  of  your  mother  and 
your  old  friend,  for  your  responsibility  is  an  awful  one ; — 
and  you  do  still  think  it  wrong  for  you,  in  these  circum- 
stances, to  remain  in  the  army.  I  knew  you  formerly, 
and  know  you  now,  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  I  am 
not  mistaken.  Am  I  ?" 
-  "  Well,  it's  pretty  hard  for  me  to  get  out  of  it." 
"Pretty  inconvenient  to  do  what  one  thinks  right, 
pretty  often.     Yes,  I  know  that  very  well." 

"  I  tell  you,  Arden,  you  don't  consider  !  You  don't 
seem  in  the  least  to  see  how  it  is.  I  should  say  you 
hadn't  the  least  feeling  for  me,  if  I  could  say  it,  looking 
back  over  the  last  two  weeks,  without  being  a  mare 
ungrateful  and  paltry  fellow  even  than  you  think  me. 
It  isn't  with  me  as  it  is  with  you.  You're  rich  enough 
to  afford  to  '  keep  a  conscience,'  and  yet  live  as  you 
please.  You  were  born  a  gentleman ;  and  I'm  only 
one  by  virtue  of  my  commission.  All  the  prospects 
in  life  of  my  family  depend  on  my  working  my  way 
up  in  the  army.  If  I  leave  it,  I  must  go  down  to 
drudge  at  a  clerk's  desk,  and  set  my  poor  little  sisters  to 
wear  themselves  out  in  keeping  school ;  if  I  stay  in  the 
army,  I  can,  with  economy,  dress  them  well,  introduce 
them  well,  and  marry  them  well.  My  first  duty  is  to 
them  and  my  mother.  I'm  a  faithful  son  to  her,  if  I 
do   serve   her   against   her   will.      Don't    you    think 


THE     ILNIGHT    IN    THE    CAMP.  279 

yourself,  that  our  circumstances  point  out  to  us  our  duties 
in  life  ?" 

''  Xo  doubt,  to  a  certain  extent ;  but  some  of  them 
bid  us  to  be  led  by  them,  and  some  to  struggle,  that  by 
wrestling  we  may  wring  from  them  the  blessing  which 
they  were  sent  to  bestow  upon  us.  As  to  position  in 
fashionable  society,  Marshall,  I  can't  help  you  much  ; 
for,  with  all  the  gentility  which  you  give  me  credit  for, 
I'm  in  Coventry  at  present  myself" 

"You,  Arden!" 

"  I,  Marshall, — though  on  no  account  which  need 
make  me  blush  for  myself,  or  my  friends  for  me ; — but 
my  sister  is  not ;  and  I -can  answer  for  her,  that  she'll  be 
very  happy  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  yom-s,  and  in- 
troduce them.  I  am  in  circumstances, — thank  heaven  ! 
— to  help  a  friend  to  keep  a  conscience,  if  a  pretty  well- 
filled  purse  can  do  it ;  and  you  must  share  mine  with 
your  old  school-fellow,  if  only  to  prove  to  him  that  he 
has  not  lost  your  friendship  by  his  pertinacious  ha- 
rangues. With  your  abilities  and  education,  you'll 
soon  make  your  way  as  a  civil  engineer ;  and  then 
your  mother  will  no  longer  sigh  over  your  remittances 
^s  I  have  heard  her  lately,  regarding  them  as  the  price 
of  blood,  yours  or  your  countrymen's." 

"  God  bless  you  !  With  all  your  cranks,  you're  the 
best-hearted  fellow  that  ever  lived ;  but  there's  tattoo  ! 
It's  time  for  me  to  turn  in.  We'll  talk  about  this,  per- 
haps, some  other  time." 

They  had  little  more  time  for  talking,  for  several 
days  ;  as  the  young  officer  was  now  well  enough  to  re- 
sume his  duty,  and  took  an  extra  share  of  it,  on  the 
plea  that  he  must  repay  his  comrades  for  their  extra 
trouble  during  his  illness.  Perhaps  he  was  not  very 
sorry ;  for  though  Herman,  in  the  foregoing  cunversa- 


280  HERMAN. 

tion,  had  softened  his  "fortiter  in  re  "  with  a  "  suavi- 
ter  in  modo  " — an  expression  in  tone  and  manner  of 
cordial  interest  in  his  friend,  and  pain  in  giving  pain, 
which  is  quite  lost  in  my  report  of  his  words — they  had 
struck  home  more  than  once.  Marshall  was  kind- 
hearted,  affectionate,  and  intelligent ;  but  he  was  one 
of  that  more  numerous  than  enviable  class  of  men,  who 
have  just  conscience  enough  to  keep  them  wavering 
in  the  wrong, — too  little  to  keep  them  unwavering  in 
the  riglit. 

A  few  days  after,  after  an  absence  of  a  few  hours, 
he  returned  to  his  room,  where  he  had  left  Herman  to 
"  keep  house  for  "  him.  He  bade  him  good  afternoon, 
with  an  elaborate  imitation  of  his  usual  manner,  came 
up  to  the  table  at  which  Herman  was  reading,  brought 
down  his  fist  upon  it  with  all  his  force,  swore,  dashed 
himself  into  a  chair  beside  it,  leaned  his  arms  and  face 
upon  it,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  dear  Marshall,"  cried  Herman,  "  my  dearest 
fellow  !  What's  the  matter  ?  What  has  happened  to 
you?" 

"  The  matter  is,"  said  Marshall,  bringing  it  out  as 
fast  as  he  could  between  oaths,  and  sobs,  and  curses, 
"  that,  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  I've  killed  little 
Sophy's  husband,  —  little  Sophy,  Arden,  —  my  own 
little  cousin, — the  best  little  thing  that  ever  was !  She 
married  a  school-master,  and  came  out  here.  So  de- 
lighted she  was,  too,  when  she  found  I  was  stationed 
here,  to  think,  as  she  said,  he  would  have  a  friend  in 
the  army,  if  worse  came  to  worst.  All  through  my 
sickness,  she  was  making  little  nice  things  for  me,  and 
making  him  bring  'em." 

"  Well,  but,  Marshall,  how  did  this  happen  ?" 

"  A  'n't  I  telling  you  as  fast  as  I  can  ?  They  sent  me, — 


THE  KXIGHT  IN  THE  CAMP.  281 

t 

d —  'em,  too  late  to  do  any  good ! — down  to  Alganock 
Precinct,  to  see  to  the  voting.  The  Border  Ruffians 
came,  of  course  ;  and,  before  I  could  get  there,  they 
and  some  of  the  Free-State  men  had  got  into  a  row. 
They  wouldn't  disperse  ;  so  I  had  to  charge  into  'em  ; 
and  when  they  did  scatter,  there  was  his  tallow  face 
looking  up  at  me  out  of  the  dust,  under  my  horse's 
hoofs!  I  backed  off  of  him,  and  picked  him  up, 
coughing  blood,  and  groaning  Ijl^od,  and  breathing 
blood, — he  couldn't  speak.  A  pretty  sight  for  her  to 
see  brought  home  I — and  she  going  to  be  confined,  no- 
body knows  how  soon  !" 

"  How  came  he  there  ?'' 

"  Don't  I  tell  you  ?  He  was  one  of  the  judges  ; 
and  when  the  other  two  caved  in,  and  he  saw  that  all 
the  Ruffians  would  be  let  vote,  he  took  the  ballot-box 
and  ran, — the  only  thing  he  could  do  to  put  a  stop  to 
it.  They  ran  after,  the  Ruffians  and  Pro- Slaveries, 
and  tried  to  get  the  box.  He  stood  to  it  like  a 
pluckier  fellow  than  1  thought  him, — he  always 
seemed  one  of  your  peaceable,  scrupulous  slow  coaches ; 
— and  some  of  the  other  Free-States  came  to  help 
him ;  and  'twas  a  free  fight  all  round.  Oh,  d —  it ! 
What's  the  use  in  talking  ?  Such  things  must  hap- 
pen, if  the  Abolitionists  will  kick  up  a  row.  'Twas  no 
fault  of  mine." 

''  Indeed,  I  hardly  see  that  it  was.  It  was  a  horri- 
ble accident ;  and  you  must  feel  it  terribly ;  but  you 
were  interfering  to  prevent  mischief,  not  to  make'  it. 
Thank  God  for  that,  Marshalll  Thank  God  for 
that !" 

"Thank  the  devil  I  I  don't  thank  God,  and  I 
won't,  for  anything  about  it !  Can't  you  wait  to  hear 
the  whole  story  before  you  begin  with  your  congratu- 


282  HERMAN. 

lations,  if  I've  got  to  tell  it  all  out,  word  for  word,  be- 
fore you  can  see  through  it  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  had  finished.     Let  me  hear." 

"  The  first  fight  was  before  I  came  up.  The  Euf- 
fians  on  the  ground,  then,  were  two  or  three  to  the 
Free -States  one.  They  knocked  Robbins  down, 
wrenched  the  ballot-box  out  of  his  hand,  got  back  to 
the  polls,  crowded  them,  chose  judges  of  their  own, 
and  voted  as  fast  a'S  they  could.  He,  thinking  himself 
responsible  for  the  integrity  of  the  vote,  rallied  his 
party  in  considerable  force,  and  besieged  the  polls. 
He  was  foremost,  nearest  the  house.  I  didn't  see  him. 
The  Free-State  men  wouldn't  give  in,  unless  I'd  prom- 
ise 'em  that  nobody  should  vote,  who  wasn't  according 
to  their  notions  qualified.  I  couldn't.  I  had  no  au- 
thority. My  orders  were  only  to  see  that  the  election 
went  on  peaceably, — not  to  say  who  should  vote,  and 
who  shouldn't.  I  couldn't  go  beyond  my  orders, 
could  I?" 

"I  think  not.     Goon." 

"  I'm  going  on  as  fast  as  I  can.  So  the  Free-States 
laid  on  to  the  Ruffians ;  and  we  laid  on  to  the  Free- 
States  ;  and  that's  all.  It's  the  fortune  of  war.  I  only 
did  my  duty.  He  did  his.  There's  nobody  to  blame. 
—Poor  little  Sophy !  I  wonder  if  he's  dead  yet.  I 
wonder  if  she  knows." — 

"What!     Did  he  ^^die?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  They  carried  him  all  wrig- 
gling into  a  shed.  I  couldn't  stay  to  look  on,  of  course, 
with  them  all  glowering  round  at  me,  and  taunting 
me,  too." 

"  Had  they  a  surgeon  ? " 

"  Ko ;  I  galloped  as  fast  as  I  could  to  Bayou's  quar- 
ters, and  begged  him  to  go  as  I  never  begged  a  brother 


TUE    KNIGIJT    IN    THE    CAMP.  283 

officer  to  do  me  a  favor  before.  He  woiildirt  budge 
an  inch.  He  said  he  knew,  by  what  I  told  him. 'twas 
no  use." 

"Where  is  the  man?"  cried  Herman,  starting  up. 

"What!  are  you  going?  God  in  heaven  bless 
you !  I  never  thought  of  you.  Do  you  think  you 
could  save  him  ?  Here,  put  on  my  uniform  great-coat 
for  a  passport.  The  country  is  swarming  still  with 
those  bandits. 

"I  cannot;  it  is  stained." 

":N'o,  it  isn't.     AVhere?" 

"IN"©  matter.     Lend  me  your  pistols." 

" There.     Why  won't  you  take  the  coat?" 

"Thank  3'ou.  I  like  mine  better  just  now-. — I'm 
going  among  Free-State  men,  remember." — 

"Bless  you  I  They  wouldn't  lay  a  finger  on  it. 
Don't  you  know,  they're  very  careful  how  they  meddle 
with  lawful  authorities?" 

"If  so,  a  good  reason,"  thought  Herman,  "why 
lawful  authorities  should  be  very  careful  how  they 
meddle  with  them."  He  hastily  received  Marshall's 
hurried  directions,  and  set  off,  promising  to  bring  or 
send  him  good  news,  if  he  could,  as  soon  as  he  could. 

There  was  no  more  good  news  to  be  brought  or 
sent  from  poor  Robbins  in  this  world,  except  that  his 
sufferings  were  over.  He  lay  on  some  straw  in  the 
shed  into  which  he  had  been  carried.  His  friends, 
havinoj  taken  off  their  coats  to  cover  him,  in  a  vain 
effort  to  keep  out  the  chill  of  death,  stood  in  their  sliirt- 
sleeves  around  him,  looking  helplessly  and  hopelessly  on. 
At  his  feet,  and  staring  immovably  with  her  bright, 
glassy  eyes,  as  if  fascinated,  at  the  grisly  contortions  of 
limb  and  feature  which  he  could  not  suppress,  crouched 
a  little  black-haired,  white-skinned  creature,  in  whom 


284  HERMAN. 

Herman  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  "  Sophy."  As 
tearless  as  unsmiling,  she,  like  a  medical  student  in  a 
hospital,  gravely,  composedly,  intently,  observed  and 
studied  tlie  agonies  of  her  husband,  seeming  not  to  let 
a  motion  nor  a  look  escape  her,  but  catching  each  one 
with  a  curious  kind  of  greediness.  She  did  not  stir, 
except  now  and  then  slightly,  with  a  sort  of  uncon- 
scious mimicry,  to  copy  some  writhing  or  grimace  of 
his.  He  gazed  at  her  with  much  more  apparent  terror 
than  she,  at  him. 

"  My  God ! "  groaned  he,  in  a  deep,  dull  voice,  like 
a  dead  man  speaking  out  of  a  tomb,  "  Poor  Sophy ! — 
how  she  looks ! — take  her  away."  The  blood  frothed 
at  his  lips  as  he  spoke.  She  blew  bubbles  from  hers 
like  a  baby,  put  her  fingers  to  them,  looked  at  her 
fingers,  seemed  surprised  that  they  were  not  red,  and 
looked  back  at  him. 

"  Come,  Miss  Bobbins,"  said  an  elderly  man,  sooth- 
ingly, "  You  come  home  along  o'  me.  Marthy  and 
Huldy  have  got  something  mighty  pretty  to  show 
ye, — some  little  baby-socks,  red  and  yeller,  they've 
been  a  knittin. — Come,  your  husband  don't  like  to 
see  you  here,  all  among  the  men-folks.  We'll  take  the 
best  o'  care  of  him ;  an  I  guess  he'll  feel  some  better 
by  and  b}^ — Come,  and  we'll  go  down  to  your  place, 
and  get  a  bed  in  the  team,  and  come  back  and  fetch 
him.'' 

She  did  not  stir,  nor  seem  to  hear,  but  kept  watch, 
still  with  the  same  passionless  intensity,  while  Herman 
busied  himself  with  her  husband.  "  I  am  a  physician," 
said  he,  stepping  within  the  ring ;  "  let  me  see  if  I  can- 
not do  something  to  relieve  you." 

The  man  looked  up  wistfully  and  gratefully  into  his 
face ;  but  "  no  use,"  he  said  ;  and  it  was  of  no  use.     His 


THE  KNIGHT  IN  THE  CAMP.  285 

Bpine  and  ribs  were  so  injured,  that  examination  could 
be  only  added  torment ;  and  the  last  cold  drops  were 
already  on  his  brow.  "Only  take  care  of  her,'' — 
gasped  he,  "it's  enough  to  kill  her. — Take  her  away, — 
for  pity's  sake ! — Oh  ! — kiss  me,  Sophy,  and  go."  She 
rose,  sank  again,  crawled  to  him  on  her  hands  and 
knees,  put  her  lips  towards  his,  and  then,  stopped  mid- 
way, as  it  seemed,  by  his  deathly  look,  and  tbrgettiiig  the 
kiss,  resumed  her  trance-like  watch.  Herman  took 
her  hand,  and  spoke  to  her;  but  when  he  would  have 
led  her  away,  she  resisted  him  with  all  her  passive 
strength,  though  without  a  word,  or  turning  her  eyes 
for  an  instant  from  her  husband. 

"Here,  Atkins,"  said  the  man  who  ha^  lirst  ad- 
dressed her,  beckoning  to  another,  like  him  somewhat 
advanced  in  life,  but  hale,  hearty,  and  respectable- 
looking,  "she  don't  know  what  she's  about.  This  is 
awful  for  him,  and  enough  to  craze  her  for  life.  1*11 
git  behind  her,  an  take  her  easy  by  the  shoulders;  and 
you  lift  her  feet ;  and  we'll  see  if  we  can't  git  her  oft 
quietly,  and  down  to  my  house.  AVe'U  git  the  girls 
to  put  her  to  bed ;  and  may-be  she'll  sleep  it  oft*.  We're 
such  old  friends,  I  guess  she  won't  mind  us." 

They  tried  it,  and  tried  it  in  the  most  compassionate 
and  considerate  way ;  but,  as  soon  as  the  little  fragile 
creature  understood  what  was  intended,  her  apathy 
gave  place  to  the  most  frenzied  rage.  She  flew  at 
their  faces  with  her  nails,  and  scratched  and  bit  like 
a  wild  cat  at  bay. 

"  Hold  on ! "  moaned  the  groaning  voice  through 
her  screams. — "Don't  vex  her. — There,  there,  Sophy. 
— Tou  shall  stay." 

They  set  her  down.  She  threw  herself  upon  him, 
and  clasped  her  arms  so  tightly  round   his  mangled 


28(>  HERMAN. 

form,  that  he  cried  out  in  his  turn.  She  loosed  her 
hold,  and  raised  her  head  to  look  at  him  once  more. 
She  saw  a  corpse,  and  with  another  wild  cry  fell  into 
strong  convulsions. 

"  So,  most  miserable  wife  of  a  most  miserable  hus- 
band," thought  Herman,  "I  would  rather  be  even  in 
your  place  than  Marshall's!  What  shall  I  say  to  him? 
It  would  be  happier, — ten  thousand  times  happier, — I 
suppose,  for  you  to  die ;  but  for  his  sake,  pray  God  I 
may  save  jou !" 

He  could  not  save  her ;  nor  could  the  best  physician 
of  the  neighbouring  towns,  who  was  brought  in,  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  by  one  of  her  husband's  friends, 
after  th^  had  got  her  home  in  an  ox-cart.  With 
Herman,  he  did  what  could  be  done  for  her  through 
the  night.  In  the  morning,  all  hope  was  gone ;  and  he 
was  obliged  to  go  to  his  other  patients,  and  leave  her 
to  Herman.  He  stayed  by  her  till  noon,  when  he  gave 
her  up  to  the  undertaker.  He  wandered  through  her 
little  cabin.  Kude  as  it  was  without,  it  looked  neat 
and  tasteful  within,  and  cheerful,  all  excepting  the 
chamber  where  the  two  3^oung  corpses  lay,  side  by  side. 
Between  them  on  their  bed  lay  another,  looking  like  a 
stranger  to  the  day-light,  the  little  waxen  baby,  that 
was  never  to  see  the  light  of  the  sun, — that  neither  of 
its  parents  had  ever  seen, — dressed  in  a  tiny  white 
robe,  wdiich  the  women  had  found  beside  its  mother's 
work-basket,  with  the  needle  still  sticking  in  the  last 
stitch,  where  she  had  probably  left  it,  as  she  started  up 
to  hear  of  the  father's  murder.  The  flowers,  fresh  still, 
which  she  had  gathered  the  day  before,  w^ere  taken  by  the 
sobbing  girls  from  the  vase  in  which  she  had  put  them, 
in  her  simple  parlour,  to  strew  her  shroud. 

"  Better  so,"  said  Herman,  as,  these  arrangements 


THE    KNKiHT    I^^    THE    CAjIP.  287 

completed,  he  came  back,  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  door-post  to  take  his  parting  look;  ^'  poor  harmless 
people  I  Since  man  must  needs  have  the  life  of  one  of 
jou,  I  see  the  mercj  of  God  in  this,  that  He  took  you 
all  together ! " 

It  was  already  near  sunset,  when  he  set  out  on  his 
return  to  the  barracks.  He  walked  slowly;  for  he 
dreaded  his  meeting  with  Marshall,  and  wished,  by 
div^erting  his  thoughts  for  a  time  from  the  tidings  which 
he  had  to  bring,  to  overcome  or  at  least  lessen  his  own 
sense  of  their  horrors,  that  he  might  the  more  gently 
impart  them  to  his  friend.  He  passed  by  the  place 
where  the  skirmish  had  been.  The  trampled  grass  and 
flowers  were  beginning  to  lift  up  their  heads  again. 
The  clear  waters  of  the  creek  that  ran  by,  were  swell- 
ing up  into,  and  washing  away,  the  hoof-prints  in  the 
banks  of  the  ford.  The  birds  perched  and  sang,  where 
the  men  must  have  struggled  and  shouted  curses  only 
yesterday.  The  earth  had  sucked  in  the  few,  small, 
dark  pools  of  blood ;  and  the  sinking  sun  shone  still 
upon  the  spots,  as  if  to  dry  them  out  of  sight.  If  they 
cried  out  of  the  ground  to  God,  God  only  heard.  All 
was  peaceful  and  still.  Xature  seemed  striving  for- 
givingly to  heal  and  eiface  all  the  prints  and  scars 
which  Man's  outrages  had  left  upon  her  fair  counte- 
nance, that  they  might  bear  no  witness  against  him  to 
her  Maker.  Herman  leaned  against  the  trunk  of  a  tall 
hickory,  and  stood  endeavouring  to  breathe  her  patient 
calmness  in. 

"  Ah,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  is  Man  forever  to  be  the 
one  blemish  on  the  face  of  this  beautiful  creation  ?  Is 
humanity  forever  destined  to  make  the  single  discord 
in  the  diapason  of  the  universe  ?  My  countrymen,  are 
we  to  gorge   this  fresh    virgin    continent  with   blood 


288  iiek:vIan. 

and  crime,  as  our  fathers  and  brothers  did  and  do  the 
old?  Is  it  not  a  strange  and  sad  j^roof  of  the  differ- 
ence between  Cliristendom  and  Christianity,  that 
eighteen  hundred  years  after  the  author  of  the  Epistle 
to  the  Hebrews  wrote,  'Let  brotherly  love  continue,' 
it  should  be  found  necessary  to  proclaim  among  soi- 
disans  civilized  nations,  Let  brotherly  love  begin,  and 
that  the  doctrine  should  be  accounted  new,  fanatical, 
unpractical,  and  wild?  What  a  different  state  of 
things  the  world  would  by  this  time  have  presented, 
if  that  pure  love  had  continued  from  the  first  to  spread 
over  it,  the  spirit  everywhere,  in  only  that  one  respect, 
keeping  pace  with  the  name,  of  the  Saviour !  The 
strong,  instead  of  trampling  upon  the  weak,  would  be 
seen  lifting  them  up;  the  lofty,  heard  saying  to  the 
lowly, '  Come  up  higher,'  instead  of,  '  Crouch  beneath 
my  footstool;'  tiie  learned,  instead  of  seeking  to  fix 
their  increasing  knowledge  as  a  great  gulf  between 
themselves  and  their  fellow-men,  would  be  oftener 
eagerly  employed  in  making,  by  means  of  it,  smooth- 
er roads  for  the  ignorant  to  ascend  upon.  The 
unlucky  debtor,  instead  of  running  away  or  blowing 
his  brains  out,  would  go  with  confidence  to  his  wealthi- 
est neighbour,  and  find  no  difiiculty  in  obtaining  aid, 
beyond  an  honest  unwillingness  to  seek  it.  As  often 
as  a  charitable  deed  was  done,  the  pleasure  would  have 
been  on  the  doer's  side ;  the  pain,  if  there  was  any, 
on  that  of  the  asker.  The  person,  who  had  saved  the 
most  men,  would  be  held  a  greater  hero  than  he  who 
who  had  killed  the  most.  He  would  be  considered  the 
greatest  statesman,  who  showed  the  most  skill  in  har- 
monizing the  interests  of  other  countries  with  those  of 
his  own.  The  poor  savage  would  be  guarded,  borne 
with,  and  taught,  by  his  civilized  neighbours,  as  kindly 
and    patiently    as    an    idiot   by  his   generous,    manly 


THE    KXIGHT    IN    THE    CA3IP.  269 

brothers.  The  beauty,  instead  of  esthuatmg  the  power 
of  her  charms,  like  that  of  a  piece  of  ordDance,  by  the 
amount  of  mischief  they  could  do,  would  deal  with  the 
happiness  of  her  young  admirers  as  cautiously  as  she 
would  have  her  beautiful  — no  longer  riyal, — friend 
deal  with  that  of  her  fayorite  brother.  The  brilliant 
and  accomplished  gentleman,  instead  of  amusing  him- 
self by  playing  off  the  follies  and  drawing  out  the 
weaknesses  of  the  artless  and  inexperienced,  would,  by 
the  dignified  respect  he  paid  them,  teach  them  to  re- 
spect and  dignify  themselyes.  The  ship-owner  would 
say  to  the  homesick  emigrant.  Will  you  sail  i  as  readily 
as  the  Jehu  says  to  the  well-dressed  native  American, 
'  Will  you  ride  V  Theft  and  murder  would  of  course 
be  unknown ;  drunkenness,  idleness,  and  poverty, 
scarcely  less  so.  The  offender  would  be  eager  to  ac- 
knowledge and  repair  his  misdeeds  ;  the  offended, 
to  forgive  and  have  them  forgotten.  Envy  and  jeal- 
ousy would  have  died  a  natural  death.  The  joy  of 
one  would  be  the  joy  of  every  one.  The  poorer  would 
work  lor  themselves,  readily  and  thoughtfully  provided 
with  employment,  if  necessary,  by  others ;  the  richer, 
for  their  neighbours.  The  master  would  loose  the 
slave ;  the  slave,  cling  to  the  master.  We  should  all 
be  every  day  as  eager  and  happy  to  befriend  each 
other  as  we  now  are  when  some  great  calamity, — 
a  fire,  shipwreck,  or  tornado, — wakes  up  the  angehc 
instincts  in  us,  which  so  soon  grow  torpid  again  in  our 
heavy  worldly  air,  and  for  an  hour  or  a ^  week  changes 
earth-worms  into  men,  and  men  into  heroes.  Wherever 
we  went, — north,  south,  east,  or  west, — we  chuuld  find 
at  need,  in  every  stranger  whom  we  met,  the  Good 
Samaritan,  walking  in  some  new  disguise. 

"  '  There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts.' 
13 


290  HERMAN. 

The  strength  of  nations,  no  longer  suicidally  wasting 
itself  in  their  mutual  destruction,  would  be  com- 
bined for  gigantic  labors  in  breakirig  in  for  the  service 
of  man  every  practicable  portion  of  our  globe,  and  in 
bringing  to  light  all  its  attainable  hidden  resources,  for 
the  prosperity  of  each  and  all.  A  new  bliss,  above  the 
bliss  of  Eden,  would  quicken  and  warm  all  hearts, — 
the  joy  not  only  of  receiving,  but  of  doing  good.  The 
custom  of  seeking  the  welfare  of  others  might  have  be- 
come, through  gratitude,  social  sympathy,  and  a  sort 
of  generous  competition,  as  ardent  a  passion  as  that  of 
seeking  one's  own  is  now.  Our  old  bad  fashion  of 
treating  one  another,  and  our  God,  as  foes,  has  been 
tried  long  enough,  not  on  the  whole  to  the  satisfaction 
of  anybody,  except  that  of  Satan,  who  set  it.  It  was 
already  old  when  the  Gospel  was  new, — long-tried,  and 
always  found  wanting ; — yet  we  have  stupidly  persisted, 
one  after  another,  generation  after  generation,  in  con- 
tinuing to  try  it  ever  since.  When  will  the  new 
fashion  come  in  ?  When  shall  we  find  all  within  and 
without  us  zealously  following  the  example  of  Christ  in 
brotherly  and  filial  love  ?" 

Ah,  not  yet,  young  dreamer,  not  just  yet!  One 
generation  of  young  dreamers, — and  actors,  too, — like 
you,  might  do  something  towards  bringing  it  about ;  but 
you  have  fallen,  like  your  Lord  and  Master  before  you, 
upon  a  generation, — not  of  vipers,  altogether,  by  any 
means,  but — of  men,  only  men, — men  as  they  used  to 
be,  men  as  they  are, — neither  angels  nor  devils,  but 
mongrels,  crosses  between  the  two, — not  Christians 
yet,  with  some  apparently  rare  exceptions,  if  to  be 
Christian  is  to  be  Christ-like, — but  only  no  longer 
Jews  nor  Pagans ! 

As  Herman's  meditations  reached  the  point  above 


THE     KNIGHT    L\    THE    CAilP.  201 

recorded,  he  became  aware  that  they  were  insensibly 
forming  themselves  into  a  tune,  the  time  of  which  was 
marked  by  a  steady  sound,  steadily  approaching, — 
''  thump  !  rub-a-dub  I  thump  I  rub-a-dub  I"  It  was  the 
beat  of  a  drum.  It  had  not,  he  thought,  the  precision 
of  the  performance  of  the  regimentai  drummer.  He 
had  seen  no  reason  to  think  that  the  Free-State  men 
were  likely  to  be  out.  They  had  told  him,  that  the 
Border  Eutiians  had  probably  recrossed  the  border  the 
night  before.  AYhat  could  this  mean  {  There  was 
certainly  the  scrapiEg  of  a  fiddle,  too  ;  and  now  a  noise 
of  coarse  singinj; !  He  resumed  his  walk  towards 
barracks.  The  music  followed  him;  and,  turning  his 
head  from  time  to  time,  he  soon  saw  following  the 
suund  into  sight,  a  grotesque  irregular  procession  of 
dogs,  horses,  and  two  or  three  hay-carts,  in  the  midst 
of  a  mob  of  red-shirted,  butternut-colured-trowsered, 
beardy  men.  They  whipped  and  kicked  the  horses, 
and  came  hooting  and  hurrying  on,  some  riding,  and 
some  running  and  holding  by  the  hay -carts.  Over  the 
foremost  a  deep  crimson  flag,  with  a  white  star  in  the 
centre,  flapped  and  swung  from  the  staft*,  which  was 
lashed  to  the  right-hand  corner-post  of  the  frame. 
Here  was  a  troop  of  ruflians,  most  evidently, — of  Bor- 
der Kuflians,  most  probably  !  Herman  could  not  get 
out  of  their  way  without  running, — nor  with  it^  per- 
haps. He  jogged  on  accordingly  in  their  way.  Their 
drum  appeared  to  be  persevering  in  a  march  ;  their 
fiddle  in  a  jig.  They  themselves  were  in  the  mean- 
time vocally  performing,  in  a  tipsy  chorus,  a  simulta- 
neous variety  of  "  negro  melodies,"  among  which  ''Ole 
Dan  Tucker  "  was  for  the  time  predominant. 

"  High !"  yelled  one  of  them,  preluding  his  recita- 
tive with  a  faithful  imitation  of  an  Indian  war-whoop. 
•*  Dog-goned  if  li\ii  nin't  Dan  now  1 — 


292  KEKMAN. 

**  *  Qit  out  de  way,  ole  Dan  Tucker ! 

You's  too  late  to  come  to  supper,"  «&c. — 

"Darn  yer,  'tain't  Dutlier!"  responded  one  of  his 
tuneful  brethren.  "  Swow,  if  'tain't  Yankee  Doodle. 
Gorry  !  View  my  splen differ ous  breeches !"  contin- 
ued he,  looking  down  from  his  height,  as  the  cart  in 
which  he  stood  came  along  by  Herman,  and  plucking 
sympathetically  at  his  own  nether  garments,  which 
happened  to  be  of  buckskin.  "  Reckon  woollens  was 
cheap  whar  you  was  raised,  strannger. 

"  '  Ob,  Yankee  Doodle's  corned  to  town, 
All  dressed  in  striped  trouse's ! 
Says  he,  The  city's  built  so  thick 
I  cannot  see  no  houses !' 
Chorus.—"  'I cannot  see  no  houses.' 

Hooh!  yah!  he!  ho!  ha!" 

"  What  was  the  price  o'  wooden  nutmegs  when  you 
left  Bosting,  Y.  Doodle,  Esk  ?" 

"  What'll  yer  take  for  Bunker's  Hill  Monument  to 
make  a  dam  for  the  Mizzoura?  Give  yer  a  almighty 
dollar, — fifty  cents  more'n  it's  wuth,  too, — come  !" 

"  How's  yer  pilgrim  father  ?" 

"  Durn  yer  fool,"  cried  another,  extracting  the  nose 
of  a  bottle  from  his  mouth,  and  in  the  act,  as  it  were, 
uncorking  his  voice,  "  he  ain't  no  Yankee  !  His  cheeks 
is  just  like  a  tomattur's." 

"  Dog-goned  if  he  ain't !  See  his  rig.  Trig  as  a 
tailor." 

"  You  be  dog-goned,  then !  He  ain't  got  no  gab. 
"What'll  yer  bet?'" 

"  Treat  all  around,  fust  store  we  come  to." 

"  Done  !  Blast  yer,  Ketchum  !  Runnin  over  the 
moon,  be  yer  ?     Hold  on  thar  !" 

The  foremost  cart,  which  had  already  gone  jolting 


THE    KNIGHT    LN"    THE    CAMP.  'l\.'>-j 

by,  halted ;  and  so  did  the  rabble  rout,  by  this  time 
encompassing  Herman  before,  behind,  and  on  one  side. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  cart-track  there,  ran  the  river. 
Herman  still  made  his  way  on  as  well  as  he  could 
through  the  crowd,  entrenching  himself  in  silence." 

"Ho,  mister  I"  cried  one  of  the  disputants,  calling 
after  him  from  his  cart,  pricking  the  wheel-hbrse  with 
a  bowie-knife  to  make  it  start  forward,  and  then  pull- 
ing it  up  on  its  haunches  beside  onr  hero,  '*  what  d'yer 
call  the  travelin  milk-pump  with  four  trotters  under- 
neath, two  pokers  in  front,  one  handle  hangin  down 
behind  for  you  to  grab  at  when  you  wants  to  catch  her, 
an  a  leather  jacket  on  ?" 

"Why,  I  suppose,"  said  Herman,  facing  about  and, 
in  spite  of  his  impatience  to  be  rid  of  them,  bursting 
into  a  heartv  lauo-h  at  this  most  un-Ao^assiz-like  de- 
scription,  "  you  must  mean  a  cow." 

"  Thar,  he  said  'caow' !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  betters, 
triumphantly.     "Auld,  he  treats  I     Auld,  he  treats  !" 

"  Durn  yer,  I  won't!"  rejoined  Auld.  "He  didn't 
commence  to.     He  said  '  cow  '  as  neat  as  any  on  us." 

"  Cause  him  to  repeat  it  over  again,"  said  an  elderly 
man  better  dressed  than  the  others,  who  appeared  to 
be  in  authority. 

Herman  had  pushed  on  a  few  paces.  The  humane 
feats  of  the  charioteer  were  re-performed  ;  and  the 
war-chariot  was  again  at  his  side,  Avith  what  looked 
like  the  muzzle  of  a  small  brass  field-piece  showing  it- 
self furtively  at  the  side,  through  the  straw  in  the 
bottom. 

"  Let's  h'ar  yer  say  it  again,  mister." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Herman,  good-humoredly,  "  on 
condition  that  you'll  let  me  hear  you  say  something 
afterwards ;  and  that  is.  Good  evening.  It  is  time  we 
were  all  getting  into  night-quarters  ;  and  your  horses 


29i  HERMAN. 

and  so-forth  there  block  up  the  road."  He  repeated  in 
a  loud  tone,  so  that  all  could  hear  him,  the  word 
"  cow,"  and  marched  on  as  before. 

"  Yote  by  show  of  hands,  gentlemen,"  said  a  voice 
behind  him,  which  he  took  to  be  that  of  the  elderly 
man  who  had  previously  interposed  ;  "  Does  Anld 
treat,  or  Harrass  ?  Those  who  deem  the  stranger  to 
have  said  '  caow^  will  evidence  the  same  by  holding  up 
their  right  hands  in  token  of  assent.  Harrass  treats. 
It  is  a  vote." 

"  Durn  it  all !"  expostulated  Mr.  Harrass,  doggedly, 
"  I  don't  car'  a  dog-goned  durn  for  that.  He's  larned 
ter  say  it  since  he  come  h'ar.  You  git  him  to  hooray 
for  Buck  an  Breck,  an  I'll  give  in." 

"  Ho,  mister !  let's  h'ar  yer  hooray  for  Buck  an 
Breck !" 

The  road  here  turned  aside  from  the  river  into  the 
prairies,  and  Herman  determined  to  make  his  escape. 

"  There's  a  good  old  saying,"  he  replied,  '^  that 
*  one  must  not  hurra  till  after  election.'  This  is  my 
way.     Good  night." 

He  turned  aside  over  the  grass,  which,  though 
breast-high  along  the  creek,  was  not  more  than  ankle- 
deep  on  the  rising  ground  opposite.  E"o  effort  was 
made  to  stop  him ;  though  he  thought  he  distinguished 
stage-whispers  and  muttering  asides  of  "  He  ^5  a  Yan- 
kee !"  '•  a  Abolitionist !"  "  Free-State  spy  !"  But,  as 
he  reached  the  top  of  a  line  of  sunset-gilded  knolls, 
which  in  another  minute  would  have  hidden  his  form 
from  the  beholders,  he  heard  a  sharp  crack  and  whistle, 
and  felt  a  hard  blow  on  his  back,  and  warm  gush  over 
his  hip.  Before  he  had  time  to  think  what  it  could 
mean,  he  also  felt  the  world  roll  over  with  him  into 
the  night,  and  cen^-ed  to  think  at  all.* 

*  See  Note  A.  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 


'THE       ISTI  R8    i»F    CHARITY.  295 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE     SISTERS    OF   CHARITY. 

"Young  women  pretty  and  incapable;  old  women  listless  and 
useless;  and  both  young  and  old,  if  women  of  sense,  perishing  of 
ennui,  and  longing  for  som'^  kind  of  a  career." 

The  Potiphap.  Papers. 

When  Herman  came  to  himself,  it  yvas  still  Teiy 
dark ;  and  through  the  darkness  he  felt  that  he  was 
carried  along  steadily  without  any  effort  of  his  own. 
His  first  vague  idea  was,  that  he  was  in  the  other 
world,  and  that  the  unseen  ministers  of  eternal  justice 
were  bearing  him  on  to  receive  his  final  doom.  This 
notion  was  speedily  put  to  fiight,  as  his  senses  returned 
to  their  duty,  by  the  sound  of  the  footsteps  of  his  bear- 
ers, and  their  quick,  hard  breathing.  A  sensation  of 
sickness  and  pain  from  their  motion  presently  added 
its  testimony,  feelingly  to  persuade  him  that  he  was 
still  in  the  body.  But  was  he  in  the  hands  of  friends 
or  foes  ? — a  not  uninteresting  question  for  a  man,  who, 
within  no  very  long  time  probably,  had  become  weaker 
tlian  a  child. — He  fixed  his  swimming  eyes,  as  well  as 
he  could,  on  the  darkness  before  him,  and  made  out, 
as  well  as  he  could,  the  darker  outline  of  a  figure  in  it; 
and  then  his  faintness  returned,  and  he  could  only  shut 
them  a^ain,  and  lose  all  other  care  in  the  one  longing 
to  have  his  possessors,  whoever  they  were,  only  lay 
him  down,  anywhere,  and  let  him  alone. 

In  a  few^  minutes  more,  lifting  his  heavy  eyelids  a 
second  time,  he  saw  himself  going  feet  foremost  into  a 


296  HERMAN. 

lighted  place,  which  looked  like  the  kitchen  of  a  farm- 
house. His  bearers  laid  him  down  wearily  on  an  old- 
fashioned  wooden  settle.  As  thej  stepped  back  from 
him,  and  raised  their  heads,  the  flickering  fire-light 
showed  them  to  be  women,  tall,  and  dressed  in  coarse 
black  gowns,  with  hnge  white  cape-bonnets,  and  black 
rosaries  and  crosses  hanging  at  their  waists.  The  first 
one  was  elderly,  pale,  and  wrinkled,  bnt  had  a  quick 
eye,  and  a  cheerful,  though  firm-set  mouth.  The  other 
was — Constance  Aspenwall  ! — It  was  !  It  was  ! — 
She  did  not  recognize  him,  for  his  face  lay  in  shadow  ; 
but  he  saw  her.  '  She  was  turning  away,  but  one 
glimpse  w^as  enough.  As  the  other  Sister  of  Charity 
began  to  feel  his  pulse,  and  say,  "  Ah !  he's  coming 
to  !  Don't  be  alarmed,  sir,  you're  among  friends,"  he 
could  hear,  through  the  open  door,  Jier  own  voice,  so 
clear  and  liquid  still,  but  so  subdued,  saying  earnestly, 
in  the  next  room,  "  Have  you  any  hartshorn,  madam? 
— brandy? — spirit  of  any  kind? — Rum? — Oh  yes, 
that  will  do,  thank  you  ! — And  is  there  any  surgeon 
you  could  send  for  ?  We  have  brought  a  poor  man 
here,  whom  we  found  lying  insensible  down  by  Ash 
Creek,  where  they  w^ere  fighting  yesterday." 

The  good  woman  of  the  house  was  heard  hurrying 
and  rummaging  about  in  the  next  apartment  for  an 
instant,  in  an  outburst  of  interjections  of  horror  and 
hospitality,  tongue,  foot,  and  hand,  apparently  keeping 
time. 

The  old  Sister  stooped  to  dip  a  mug-full  of  water  for 
Herman,  out  of  a  pail,  which  stood  on  the  hearth. 

Constance  recrossed  the  threshold;  and  the  pale  and 

gory  ghost  of  her  lost  love  rose  from  his  rude  couch, 

and  staggered  before  her.     She  tossed  her  arms  wildly 

above  her  head,  with   all  the  shriek  she  did  not  utter 

13* 


THE    SI8TERS    OF  CHARITY,  207 

frozen  in  her  face.  He  Trould  have  fallen  at  her  feet 
in  the  track  which  his  freshly-flowing  blood  had  made, 
had  not  Sister  Mary  Peter,  with  the  quick  instinct  of 
her  profession,  whirled  round  like  a  windmill,  caught 
him,  and  replaced  him  on  the  settle.  Constance  fol- 
lowed mechanically ;  and  through  the  sickness  and 
faintness  which  returned  upon  him,  he  could  hear  her 
mutter,  as  if  beside  herself,  "Oh,  my  God!  I  have 
killed  him,  and  his  wounds  bleed  afresh  at  the  presence 
of  his  murderess  !" 

He  strugo^led  to  rise  again ;  but  Sister  Mary  forbade 
it,  with  both  word  and  deed.  "  Constance  !"  "  Oh, 
Herman !"  She  came  before  him,  and  took  his  droop- 
ing hand.     He  put  hers  to  his  lips. 

Sister  Mary  guessed  something,  sympathized^  and 
covered  the  little  scene  from  her  hostess  (whose  atten- 
tion was  luckily  divided  for  the  moment  by  the  opera- 
tion of  scraping  with  a  knife,  from  her  hands,  the  dough 
which  covered  them,)  by  the  dexterous  interposition  of 
her  person  ;  but  she  could  not  possibly  let  this  sort  of 
proceeding  go  on.  It  was  quite  contrary  to  rule. 
"  Go  out,  and  see  whether  the  boy  has  gone  for  the 
doctor,  Sister  Agnes  Alexis,"  said  she  authoritatively, 
taking  Constance  by  the  arm  ;  "  and  don't  come  back 
here  till  you're  quite  composed.  The  patient  must  be 
kept  perfectly  quiet.  I'm  going  to  undress  him  ;"  and 
she  put  Constance  out.  "  It  takes  these  young  things 
some  time  to  get  used  to  the  sight  of  blood  ;  and  he 
was  a  pretty  heavy  weight  for  her  to  carry.  Mrs. 
Dobbs,  if  you  had  a  chamber  where  we  could  put  him 
to  bed  before  the  doctor  comes," — 

"  Certingly,  Miss  Peter,  certingly.  Right  this  way, 
ma'am.  The  best  bed's  all  ready  prepared.  I'll  git 
you  my  ironing-sheet  to  lift  him  on ;  an  I  guess  I'd 


1293 


HERMAN. 


better  help  you  a  spell,  ef  Miss  Alexis  is  flustered. — 
^Twas  something  of  a  heft  for  you  to  fetcli  so  fur. 
Pootty  young  man,  ain't  he  ?  Hope  he'll  git  over  it ; 
but  he  does  look  dreadful  bad,  don't  he  ?  I  never ! 
his  eyes  is  open  now.  Hope  he  didn't  hear  what  I 
said  !     La  !  he'll  git  over  it  fast  enough,  I'll  bet." 

Sister  Mary  locked  the  door,  pocketed  the  key,  and, 
aided  and  abetted  by  her  chattering  hostess,  very  gently 
and  quickly  exchanged  Herman's  clothes,  moistened 
and  stiflfened  with  dew  and  blood,  for  a  coarse,  but 
clean,  home-spun  shirt.  She  then,  no  other  surgeon 
being  forthcoming,  examined  his  wound,  stanched  it, 
and  bound  it  up  as  well  as  she  could,  which  was  not 
very  badly ;  for  she  had  formerly  been  employed  for 
several  months  as  dresser  in  a  military  hospital  in 
Europe.  The  ball  she  found  in  Herman's  stocking. 
It  had  extracted  itself;  and,  though  it  had  previously 
danced  a  good  deal  in  his  system,  as  a  ball  sometimes 
will,  she  thought  that  it  had  spared  his  bones  and  vitals 
altogether,  and  that  the  loss  of  blood  would,  if  he  was 
strong  enough  to  bear  it,  be  of  service  in  preventing 
inflammation,  provided  he  kept  perfectly  quiet  in 
body  and  mind ;  and  he  might  be  sure  that  Sister 
Agnes  Alexis,  and  she,  would  take  the  best  care  they 
could  of  him,  and  do  their  part,  if  he  would  do  his. 

Having  delivered  herself  thus  scientiflcally  and 
diplomatically,  she  took  the  key  from  her  pocket,  re- 
quested Mrs.  Dobbs,  nothing  loth,  to  take  charge  of 
her  patient  for  ten  minutes  or  so, — and  to  lock  the  door 
after  her,  as  she  did  not  wish  him  to  be  disturbed, — 
and  informed  him  that  if  he  stirred  before  she  came 
back,  it  would  be  at  the  peril  of  his  life.  She  then 
slipped  quickly  out,  reclosed  the  door,  and  left  him  to 
such  comfort  as  he  could  find  between  his  soft  band* 


THE    SISTERS    OF  CHAKITY.  299 

ages  without  and  his  hard  struggles  within,  while  he 
lav,  longing  to  collect  all  his  remaining  life  into  one 
efibrt,  to  leap  np,  hurst  the  door,  and  throw  himself  at 
Constance's  feet,  if  it  was  only  to  die  there,  and  yet 
fearing  to  compromise,  he  knew  not  how  grievously, 
"  Sister  Agn*es  Alexis." 

As  Sister  Mary  Peter  ex})ected,  she  no  sooner  came 
into  the  passage,  with  her  little  lamp  in  her  hand, 
than  she  came  upon  her  young  colleague.  Constance 
was  kneeling  in  the  dark  on  the.  boards,  with  her 
hands  clasj^ed,  almost  knotted,  over  her  heart.  She 
sprang  up,  and  caught  Sister  Mary's  arm. 

"  He  is  doing  very  well,  my  dear,  at  present,  at 
least,"  said  the  latter,  replying  to  her  speechless  ges- 
ture ;  "  and  now  come  out  with  me .  I  must  ask 
you," 

"  And  I  must  tell  you  ! — Sister,  I  don't  forget  my 
vow  ;  and  if  the  blessed  Virgin  and  you  will  help  me, 
I  won't  break  it ;  but  I  must  see  him  and  be  with  him 
now  ;  and  if  you  try  to  part  us  before  he  is  out  of  dan- 
ger, I  (iSiniwt  answer  for  the  consequences.  Yuu  must 
know, — no,  I  shall  not  go  away  ! — he  might  die  ; — we 
will  whisper, — your  ear. — Mr.  Arden, — this  gentle- 
man,— was  my  lover;  but  we  quarrelled  and  parted." 

"  Whose  fault  was  that  ?" 

*'  Mine.  He  was  as  upright  and  warm  and  true  a 
lover  as  woman  ever  had,  only  too  good  for  me. 
I  wished  to  govern  him  in  matters  I  knew  nothing 
about ;  and  he  had  too  much  spirit  to  submit  to  it ; 
and  so  we  parted.  I  thought  that  I  had  made  him 
cease  to  love  me ;  but  I  see  now  that  I  have  not ;  and 
I  know,  that  it  could  have  been  only  despair  which 
drove  him,  as  it  did  me,  to  this  fatal,  fatal  place. 
Xow,  do  I  not  owe  him  some  amends  ?  —his  life,  if  my 


300  HEKMAN. 

care  can  restore  him? — a  happy  death,  if, — oh,  heaven, 
have  pity  on  ns  ! — he  must  die  ?  Stay  in  this  house, 
Sister  Mary  !  Stay,  and  go  in,  and  let  me  go  in  with 
you  and  tend  him  till  he  is  out  of  danger,  or  out  of 
this  weary  world ;  and  then  I  will  allow  you  to  take 
me  away  with  you,  wherever  you  will,  to  any  one  who 
needs  us  more.  He  is  too  honorable  to  tempt  me  to 
break  a  solemn  oath,  whatever  you  may  think  of  me. 
Stay  and  be  merciful,  as  you  w^ould  have  St.  Peter 
show  you  mercy  in  your  need  !  I  shall  control  myself 
perfectly  before  the  people  of  the  house,  and  him,  and 
everybody  else  ;  and  so  will  he,  when  you  tell  him  how 
much  depends  upon  it." 

Constance  hurried  through  these  sentences,  almost 
in  the  time  of  any  single  one,  that  Sister  Mary  had 
ever  heard  from  her  before.  Her  tears  of  grief,  terror, 
and  entreaty,  flowing  as  fast  as  her  words,  had  mean- 
while become  a  perfect  rain,  and  were  rapidly  thawing 
the  not  very  hard  or  cold  heart  of  the  experienced 
elder,  who  liked  a  bit  of  romance  when  she  could  hon- 
estly come  by  it,  and  who,  besides,  began  to  consider 
that,  while  getting  her  out  of  Herman's  way  hj  finesse 
was  in  th.e  circumstances  impossible,  any  attempt 
to  do  so  by  the  exercise  of  authority  would  probably 
fail,  and  also  bring  about  the  very  exposure  of  the 
novice's  feelings,  w^hich  it  was  desirable  to  avoid. 
Constance's  hitherto  resolutely  unflinching,  implicit 
obedience,  moreover,  had  led  the  sagacious  old  lady  to 
apprehend  that  her  mutiny,  if  she  were  ever  driven  to 
it,  might  bo  extremely  formidable ;  but  it  also  encour- 
aged her  to  believe,  that  Constance  could  still  com- 
mand herself  in  this,  or  any,  emergency,  provided  she 
saw  it  to  be  worth  her  while. 

Just  as  Sist^  r  Mary  Peter  showed  sign-  of  waver- 


THE    slSTKliS    OF  CHAKITY.  301 

ing,  and  Sister  Agnes  Alexis  redoubled  accordingly  her 
half-menacing  entreaties,  it  happened  in  iier  favor  that 
the  key  clicked  in  the  lock,  and  the  door  opened. 
Herman,  with  the  cunning  of  utter  helplessness,  had 
shut  his  eyes  and  feigned  sleep.  Mrs.  Dobbs,  tired  of 
silence,  and  suddenly  recollecting  that  certain  rolls 
must  be  turning  to  bricks  in  the  oven,  peered  out  to 
seek  a  substitute.  Constance,  seizing  her  advantage, 
flashed'in  like  lightning,  with  Sister  Mary  at  her  heels, 
flew  to  Herman,  looked  in  his  eyes,  and  put  water  to 
his  lips,  but  laid  her  finger  on  her  own,  while  her  col- 
league took  the  word : 

"  Mr.  Arden,  [so  Constance  had  told  her  who  he 
was,]  as  Sister  Agnes  Alexis  has  told  me  of  your  old 
acquaintance,"  said  Sister  Mary,  looking  at  him  sig- 
nificantly ;  (so  Constance  had  told  her  how  they 
stood  with  one  another  I  Just  like  her,  artless, 
noble-hearted  creature !  How  much  better  it  looked 
than  concealment  I  How  much  more  to  the  credit  of 
all  parties !)  ''  we  both  think  it  may  be  a  comfort  to 
you  to  have  her  assist  me  in  taking  care  of  you  ;" — 

"  God  bless  you  !" 

"  Talking,  at  present,  will  not  be  good  for  you, 
sir; — and  I  have  consented,  understanding  from  her 
that  you  are  an  honorable  man,  who  will  make  no 
effort  to  turn  her  mind  from  her  duty,  when  her  vows 
call  her  away  to  the  service  of  others  who  need  her 
more.  That  will  hardly  be,  of  course,  till  you  are  bet- 
ter, provided  you  are  patient  and  docile,  so  that  it  is  in 
our  power  to  do  you  good." 

Herman  bowed  his  pillowed  head,  looking  very  grate- 
ful. They  understood  one  another  pretty  well.  She  felt 
for  the  young  sufferer,  and  would  gladly  do  for  him  all 
that  she  could,  consistently  with  fidelity  to  the  obliga- 


302  HERMAN. 

tions  which  bound  her ;  and  more  he  must  not,  and 
would  not,  ask.  She  would  suffer  them  to  pass  what 
might  be  his  last  earthly  hours  together,  under  the 
sanction  of  her  presence  ;  but  it  must  be  upon  her  own 
terms  ;  and  that  was  all  that  she  could  do  for  him.  She 
had  them  in  her  power ;  and  he  must  and  ought  to 
submit.  A  young  Sister  in  her  charge  might  tend  a 
sick  man  blamelessly ;  but  she  must  not  listen  to  a 
lover. 

So  the  slow  hours  crept  on.  The  Dobbses  mascu- 
line came  audibly  home  in  their  tramping  cowhide 
shoes,  tramped  up  stairs,  and  anon  breathed  stertorously. 
Mrs.  Dobbs  knocked  for  the  last  time  at  the  door, 
brought  in  a  plate  of  cold  baked  pork-and-beans  and 
pumpkin-pie  for  supper,  stared  at  Herman,  requested 
"  Miss  Peter"  to  "  jest  please  mind  the  lamp  didn't  drop 
no  sparks,"  and  withdrew  to  her  dormitory.  Then  the 
long,  unbroken  night  ranged  with  clicking  footsteps 
round  and  round  the  face  of  the  old  eight-day  clock, 
while  the  unfortunate  young  people, — so  long  parted, 
BO  soon  to  part  again,  perhaps  forever ! — sat  and  lay  in 
each  other's  presence,  under  the  Argus  eyes  of  their 
keeper,  with  parted  hands,  and  sealed  lips,  and  burst- 
ing hearts, — bursting  with  a  struggling  chaos  of  love, 
wonder,  hope,  and  dread. — How  much  had  each  to  ask 
and  to  tell  1  Must  they  part  again,  and  leave  it  all 
unsaid  ?  How  soon  ?  When  should  they  meet  again  ? 
As  these  questions,  with  a  chorus  of  similar  ones, 
rushed  through  Herman's  brain,  his  pulse  throbbed 
higher  and  higher. 

To  one  of  them,  he  felt  at  last  as  if  he  must  have  an 
answer,  or  die.  Beckoning  Sister  Mary  to  him  at  mid- 
night, he  whispered,  "Is  she  bound  for  life?" 

"  Oh,  no,  my  son  !" 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHAKITY.  303 

"  For  how  long  ?" 

"  A  year." 

He  cast  towards  Constance  an  inexpressible  glance 
of  relief  and  delight,  closed  his  eyes,  fell  asleep,  and 
awoke  the  next  morning  with  a  siinse  of  such  unwonted 
and  childlike  lightness  of  heart,  that  his  first  idea  on 
seeing  the  bare  rafters  over  his  head  was,  that  he  was 
a  happy  little  schoolboy  again,  spending  a  vacation  at 
Sea  FaiTQ ;  and  when  he  would  have  raised  himself  to 
look  about  him,  the  weakness  and  stiff  soreness,  which 
checked  him,  did  but  remind  him  that  he  was  a  happier 
man  ;  and,  as  he  sank  back  upon  his  pillow,  it  was  with 
an  ineffable  sense  of  thankfulness  and  joy,  which  re- 
called to  him  the  words,  "  Yerily  I  say  unto  you,  there 
is  no  man  that  hath  left  house,  or  brethren,  or  sisters, 
or  father,  or  mother,  or  wife,  or  children,  or  lands,  for 
my  sake  and  the  gospel's,  but  he  shall  receive  an  him- 
dred-fold  now  in  this  time,  houses,  and  brethren,  and 
sisters,  and  mothers,  and  children,  and  lands;  with  per- 
secutions, and  in  the  world  to  come  eternal  life." 

His  sound  sleep,  which  he  stood  in  great  need  of, 
having  had  none  for  forty  hours  before,  recruited  his 
strength,  reduced  his  fever,  and  cleared  his  head.  He 
was  now  able,  in  some  degree,  to  take  his  case  under 
his  own  consideration  ;  and  his  opinion,  as  well  as  Sis- 
ter Mary's,  was  very  encouraging  to  himself  and  to 
Constance.  It  was  further  confirmed  by  that  of  Dr. 
Coffin,  the  physician  who  had  been  with  him  the  night 
before  in  poor  Robbins's  cabin,  and  who  looked  in  upon 
him  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  in  great  amazement 
and  some  wrath  at  seeing  his  late  able,  active,  and 
blooming  assistant,  so  quickly  turned  into  a  pallid, 
meek-faced,  helpless  patient.  He  was  much  struck  by 
the  spectacle  of  Herman's  resignation,  which  certainly 


?>04  HEKMAN. 

was  most  edifying,  and  was  exceedingly  kind,  and 
ready  to  do  all  tliat  he  could ;  but  he  was  very  busy 
and  hurried,  and  liis  fino;ers  were  much  biffirer  than 
Sister  Mary's,  and  his  touch  harder  and  heavier;  so 
that  Herman  was  glad,  on  more  accounts  than  one,  to 
liear  him  compliment  her  merrily  upon  her  skill,  and 
declare  that  she  had  done  and  was  doins;  all  that  was 
necessary,  and  that  unless  the  symptoms  changed,  or 
she  desired  a  consultation,  he  believed  he  need  not 
meddle  much  further  in  the  business,  though  he  would 
look  in  as  often  as  he  could  get  round  that  way.  All 
that  Herman  required,  all  agreed,  was  good  nursing 
and  quiet  just  now,  and  good  feeding  presently.  His 
good  health  and  condition  would  do  all  the  rest  for 
him ;  and,  for  himself,  he  was  afraid  now  only  of  get- 
ting well  too  fast. 

He  w^anted  no  change.  He  would  have  liked  only 
to  stop  the  clock,  and  make  the  earth  stand  still.  What 
health  was,  or  could  be,  like  illness  watched  by  Con- 
stance ?  She  said  little ;  she  could  do  nothing,  but  now 
and  then  bring  him  cool  draughts  or  keep  the  flies 
away,  for  sister  Mary  left  her  nothing  else  to  do ;  but 
that  was  enough.  She  sat  for  the  most  part  with  her 
eyes  cast  dowm ;  but  that  gave  him  only  the  better 
chance  to  keep  his  own  fixed  undetected  on  her  face. 
He  gazed  silently  until,  in  weariness  and  wealvuess,  he 
could  gaze  no  longer,  and  the  beautiful  vision  swam 
away-  into  dreams  of  her.  He  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  losing  one  moment,  in  her  presence,  of 
* '  The  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss ;" 
but  when  he  awoke  with  a  start,  and  looked  to  see  that 
she  had  not  fled  with  his  dreams,  amends  was  made  him 
for  his  unwilling  slumbers  ;  for,  before  she  had  time  to 
look  away,  he  found  that  she  in  her  turn  w;  s  gazing 


THE    SISTEK6    UF    CHAKITY.  305 

upon  liim  ;  and  thus,  sometimes,  for  an  instant  their 
glances  would  meet.  •  So  the  bare  "  best-chamber," 
with  its  unpapered  walls  and  floor  painted  yellow,  its 
narrow  strip  of  blue  carpet  before  the  hearth,  and  green 
carpet  before  the  door,  and  chalky  plaster  vases  on  the 
mantel-piece,  full  of  hectic  apples  and  jaundiced 
oranges,  was,  to  one  of  its  tenants  at  least,  an  Elysium ; 
and  so  the  first  day  passed,  and  tlie  second. 

But,  on  the  third,  the  unhappy  Herman  could  not 
but  perceive  that  he  was  better.  What  a  vexation  it 
is  sometimes  to  have  a  fine  constitution  I  His  trials 
had  begun  with  a  particularly  good  and  long  night's 
rest.  In  the  morning,  he  could  not  keep  himself  from 
having  an  excellent  appetite  for  all  the  toast  and  tea, 
that  Sister  Mary  would  give  him  for  breakfast ;  she 
would  give  him  only  a  quantity  altogether  too  moder- 
ate to  afford  him  the  smallest  chance  of  getting  up  a 
little  more  fever ;  and  his  pulse  had  run  down,  in  the 
course  of  the  night,  most  unreasonably.  He  hoped 
once  in  the  forenoon  that  it  was  quickening  again  ;  but 
that  was  only  because  Constance  brought  him  some 
flowers;  and,  as  soon  as  she  turned  away,  it  was  pro- 
voking enough  to  beat  only  a  sort  of  Dead  March.  He 
was  recovering  about  twice  as  fast  as  he  had  expected, 
or  as  almost  anybody  else  would  have  done  in  his 
place ;  and  when  Sister  Mary,  on  dressing  his  wound, 
reported  accordingly,  she  seemed  to  expect  him  to  be 
glad  of  it.  It  was  all  very  hard,  and  could  not  be 
helped ;  but  the  hardest  and  least  to  be  helped  of  all 
was,  that  Marshall,  who  had  heard  some  rumor  of 
what  had  happened  and  been  trying  in  vain  to  dis- 
cover his  whereabouts^  did  discover  them,  and  came 
to  see  him.  in  the  afternoon,  and  told  him  that  he  should 
repeat  his  visit  in  the  course  of  three  or  four  days,  as 


306  HERMAN. 

soon  as  he  could  be  relieved  from  his  duty,  stay  with 
him  until  he  was  well  enough  to  travel,  and  then  ac- 
company him  at  least  as  far  as  was  necessary,  on  his 
return  to  Boston.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  mention 
this  plan  before  Sister  Mary.  She  approved  of  it  highly, 
declaring  that  the  business  of  her  mission  required  her 
elsewhere,  and  that,  if  Herman  continued  to  improve 
as  fast  as  he  had  begun,  he  would  need  nothing,  after 
the  end  of  the  week,  but  what  his  friend  could  easily 
do  for  him  under  the  occasional  direction  of  a  phy- 
sician. 

Poor  Herman  had  nothing  to  say. — It  was  certainly 
the  best  arrangement  that  could  be  made.  Ned  could 
not  come  for  him.  He  was  gone  to  the  Adirondacks, 
where  no  summons  would  reach  him.  Clara  would 
and  must  soon  hear  of  his  situation,  and  could  hardly 
fail  to  be  much  alarmed  and  distressed  until  she  saw 
him.  Constance  could  not  be  expected  to  remain  with 
him,  after  the  lirst  exigency  was  passed. — He  said  no- 
thing accordingly ;  but  he  thought  a  good  many 
things,  and  among  others  made  the  very  improper  re- 
flection, that  the  very  most  odious  feature  in  some 
arrangements  is,  that  they  are  so  manifestly  the  best, 
that  nothing  can  be  said  against  them. 

Marshall  was  again  looking  very  ill  himself, — quite 
as  fit  for  a  patient  as  for  a  nurse.  He  was  to  travel 
for  some  weeks  for  his  health.  Dr.  Bayou  had  given 
him  a  "  sick  certificate."  Herman  did  not  have  to  tell 
him  the  end  of  poor  "  little  Sophy's  "  story.  He  made 
no  inquiries  ;  he  had  heard  it  already,  and  had  had  the 
additional  pain  of  great  anxiety  about  his  friend  ;  for  a 
pencilled  note,  which  Herman  sent  to  him  as  soon  as  he 
was  able  to  write  it,  miscarried ;  and  he  had  only  vague- 
ly heard  that  he  had  been  wounded,  whether  mortally 


THE    SISTEKS    OF    CHARITY.  307 

or  not  was  not  known.  There  was  an  expression  of 
despairing,  moody  suffering  about  him,  very  painful  to 
witness  or  to  think  of.  Time  might  mitigate  it, — or 
aggravate. — Remorse  is  a  disease  of  most  uncertain 
prognosis.  There  is  but  one  specific  for  it ;  and  that, 
the  sufferer  is  very  often  unwilling  to  try. 

Herman  could  not  sleep  that  night  until  late.  He 
was  glad  to  while  away  some  tedious,  restless  hoars, 
and  drive  away  some  unquiet  and  disquieting  thoughts, 
by  making  Sister  Mary  chat  with  him.  He  rather 
liked  her.  She  had  a  quaint  queer  mind,  with  an  odd 
mixtnre  in  it  of  shrewdness,  subtlety,  and  simplicity, 
and  had  seen  much  of  life,  both  in  her  present  vocation 
and  in  her  earlier  days,  as  a  member  of  rather  a  fash- 
ionable family  in  Baltimore.  If  she  had  not  been  so 
formidable  and  insurmountable  an  obstacle  to  an  im- 
mediate explanation  between  himself  and  Constance, 
he  thought  he  might  even  have  grown  fond  of  her. 
Her  only  fault  as  a  nurse  was,  that  she  was  too  faithful. 
She  scarcely  left  him  by  night  or  day,  except  for  a  few 
moments,  when  the  hospitable  Mrs.  Dobbs  paid  him 
one  of  her  three  or  four  daily  visits ;  and  when  she 
did  go,  Constance  always  went  with  her.  '  Sleep 
seemed  to  be  with  her  rather  an  occasional  indul- 
gence than  a  necessity  of  nature  ;  and  now  having,  as 
she  did  regularly  after  the  iirst  night  of  danger  and 
uncertainty,  sent  "  Sister  Agnes  Alexis  "  off  to  bed  at 
an  early  hour,  she  was,  as  usual,  sitting  bolt  upright  at 
his  side,  in  a  plain  old-fashioned  high-backed  chair,  in 
which  she  dozed  a  little  now  and  then,  with  the  spot- 
less cape-bonnet  canted  waggishly  awry,  and  one  eye- 
brow set  up,  as  if  in  token  of  readiness  in  the  eye 
belonging  to  it  to  open  at  the  slightest  notice.  He 
coughed  slightly  ;  the  eye  opened  instantly,  and  so  did 


308  HERMAN. 

its  fellow,  and  her  mouth,  with  the  prompt  inquiry 
whether  he  did  not  lie  comfortably,  or  would  like  to 
have  her  move  him.  He  asked  her  whether  she  was 
sleepy;  she  of  course  promptly  denied  the  charge; 
when  he  suggested  that  he  was  not  either,  could  not 
make  himself  so,  and  should  be  glad  to  have  her  talk 
to  him.  She  was  all  obliging  -readiness,  and  disposed 
to  begin  with  converting  him,  but  could  not  proceed 
far  in  that  direction,  before  he  treated  her  in  return 
for  her  motherly  care, — ungrateful  fellow ! — to  a  little 
filial  sauciness. 

She  informed  him  with  much  fervor,  that  the  very 
night  before  she  found  him,  the  Yirgin  Mary  had  ap- 
peared to  her  in  a  dream,  with  the  North  Star  in  her 
hand,  and  foretold  to  her,  that  the  very  next  day  she 
should  fall  in  with  a  young  heretic,  born  under  that 
star,  who  should  be  saved  by  her  nursing  from  imme- 
diate, and  by  her  teaching  from  eternal,  death. 

.  The  device  was  so  temptingly  transparent,  that  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment  he  could  not  help  rejoining,  that 
on  that  very  night,  though  he  owned  he  could  not  now 
remember  it,  he  was  sure  that  St.  Peter  must  have  ap- 
peared to  him,  and  told  him  that  the  Pope  had  stolen 
his  keys,  and  that  before  he  could  get  them  back  again, 
Herman  must  make  an  excellent  Protestant  of  an  ex- 
cellent Sister  of  Charity.  "  An  old  one, — not  a  young 
one  !" — he  ejaculated  with  a  frightened  after-thought, 
heaping  insult  on  insult  to  poor  Sister  Mary,  in  his 
anxiety  lest  she  should  imagine  that  he  entertained  any 
present  designs  against  the  faith  of  his  lady-love. 
Then,  perceiving  the  unintentional  rudeness  into  which 
he  had  been  betrayed,  he  colored  piteously,  and  was 
mute,  and  quite  confounded. 

Sister  Mary  told  her  whole  rosary  before  she  looked  at 


THE    SISTEKS    OF    CHAEITY. 


309 


liim  again,  which  probably,  if  she  was  angry,  answered 
the  same  purpose  as  "  counting  a  hundred  "  before  she 
spoke ;  for  tliough,  when  she  had  done,  she  shook  her 
bead  at  him,  it  was  very  good-humoredly.  He  begged 
her  pardon  for  his  levity,  but  added  in  sober  earnest, 
that  he  thought  it  hardly  fair  that  he  should  hear  his 
creed  attacked,  unless  she  would  promise  him  in  return 
a  candid  hearing  of  all  his  arguments  in  its  defence, 
which  she  could  not  do,  because  they  were  *'  tempta- 
tions of  the  old  boy,  my  son !"  Their  theological  con- 
ference, therefore,  ended  where  it  it  began ;  but  there 
were  collateral  matters  about  which  he  was  eager  to 
ask  and  she  to  tell,  though  she  might  have  chosen  to 
taboo  them  in  the  presence  of  the  younger  and  less- 
confirmed  devotee.  She  was  the  first  regular  religieuse 
with  whom  he  had  ever  talked ;  and  he  was  much 
struck  with  the  specimen  of  active,  ardent,  joyous 
beneficence,  and  animated,  vigorous,  occupied  old 
age,  which  she  presented.  He  begged  to  know,  what 
was  the  most  common  motive  with  those  who  embraced 
her  profession.  (He  was  too  delicate  to  ask  wh-at  her 
own  had  been  ;  though  he  longed  to  do  so,  for  she  bore 
in  her  intelligent  face  the  remains  of  much  beauty,  her 
temperament  was  evidently  a  peculiarly  cheerful  one, 
and  he  believed  that  without  some  property  she  could 
not  have  secured  admission  to  her  order.) 

"  Well,  my  son,"  she  replied,  crossing  herself  de- 
voutly, *'  of  course  there  may  be  subordinate  motives 
in  many  cases,  of  many  sorts  and  kinds.  Some  Sisters 
may  have  been  crossed  in  love,  I  dare  say  ; — we  don't 
talk  about  those  things  much : — but  I  hope  the  chief 
motive,  in  all  cases,  is  the  wish  to  serve  the  Lord.  It 
ought  to  be." — She  paused  ;  "  you  want  to  say  some- 
thing."— 


310  HERMAN. 

"  I  did  wish  to  ask  sometiiing ;  but  I  am  afraid  you 
would  think  it  was  of  a  piece  with  my  impertinence 
just  now." 

"  Ko  ;  I  shouldn't  think  any  more  about  that.  Ask 
away." 

"  Cannot  women  '  serve  the  Lord '  without  for- 
saking their  domestic  duties  ?"  He  expected  the  stereo- 
typed and,  as  he  thouglit,  generally  perverted  reply, 
''Whoso  loveth  father  or  mother  more  than  me,  is  not 
worthy  of  me;"  but  he  did  not  get  it.  Right  or 
wrong,  Sister  Mary  had,  upon  that  subject,  some  no- 
tions of  her  own. 

Her  smile  was  a  little  bitter,  but  with  a  kind  of 
tonic  bitterness,  like  wormwood  sweetened,  as  she  re- 
plied, "What  the  Protestants  are  always  saying  behind 
our  backs,  no  doubt !  Many  thanks  to  one  of  you  for 
saying  it  to  my  face,  and  giving  me  a  chance  to  answer 
it !  A  girl  may  go  and  get  married, — no  matter  how 
many  duties  she  leaves  behind  her,  nor  how  much  she's 
wanted  in  her  father's  house, — and  go  to  the  world's 
end  with  her  husband  ;  and,  if  he's  rich,  her  friends 
haven't  a  word  to  say ;  and  if  she  really  can  be  spared 
from  home,  and  loves  him,  I  haven't,  either ;  for  mar- 
riage is  an  honorable  and  holy  sacrament  appointed  of 
God ;  and  if,  when  her  lover'd  got  her  heart,  she  held 
back  her  hand  from  him  to  turn  it  to  the  service  of  the 
church,  Satan  might  tempt  her  with  dreadful  regrets 
and  lookings  back,  which  won't  do  at  all,  for  our  rule 
requires  zeal  and  a  single  heart.  If  she  donH  like  her 
husband  though,!  must  think, — whether  I  say  it  or  not, — 
that  she'd  have  done  better,  instead  of  marrying  him,  and 
setting  up  another  private  misery-factory  of  her  own 
where  there  were  plenty  of  'em  already,  to  devote  her- 
self to  God,  and  go  about  helping  some  of  the  number 


THE    SISTEjRS    of    CHAEITY.  311 

less  troubles  that  have  sprung  out  of  just  such  mar- 
riao-es.  But  if  she  wants  to  do  that,  all  her  friends  find 
their  tongues  at  once,  and  set  up  a  terrible  outcry  about 
her  domestic  duties. 

"  When  I  was  out  in  the  world  and  read  vain 
books,  there  was  a  story  in  one  of  them  about  a  sort  of 
a  fairy, — Peri  Banou,  seems  to  me,  was  her  name, — our 
Lady  forgive  me  for  remembering  such  stuff  so  long ! — • 
but  she  had  a  tent  that  would  stretch  out  to  fit  a  thou- 
sand people,  or  shrink  up  to  fit  one,  just  according  to 
the  number  it  had  to  fill  it.  Xow,  when  I  hear  that 
sort  of  talk  about  domestic  duties,  I'm  apt  to  think 
they're  just  like  that  tent.  One  woman,  if  she  has  a 
good  head  and  pair  of  hands  of  her  own,  and  a  few 
servants,  can  keep  house  for  ten  men ;  but  if  there's 
only  one  man  in  a  family,  and  ten  women,  'twill  take 
'em  all  just  exactly  the  same  to  keep  house  for  him  ; 
and  not  one  woman  of  'em  all  can  be  spared, — except 
it's  to  be  married,  or  do  something  else  that's  the  fash- 
ion,— from  the  stretchy  domestic  duties." 

"  But  do  not  the  ditfer^t  women  in  a  family  owe 
some  duties  to  one  another  C 

"  Of  course  they  do,  while  they  stay  in  the  family  ; 
and  of  course,  if  they  can't  be  spared,  they  ought  to 
stay  in  it,  and  not  leave  it  to  be  married,  nor  anything 
else;  but  what  I  have  to  say  about  it  is  only  just  this : 
If  one  of  'em  can  be  spared  from  it  at  all,  and  is  going 
to  be,  isn't  it  fair  she  should  be  allowed  to  take  her 
choice  between  leaving  it  for  the  service  of  God's  poor 
or,  of  the  world  ?" 

"  It  would  seem  so,  indeed.  I  never  thought  of 
that  before." 

"  Yes,"  pursued  the  old  lady,  warmly  and  volubly, 
"  but  she  mustn't  do  that,  whatever  she  does.    It  u-ould 


312  HEIiMAN. 

be  so  undutiful,  so  unnatural,  so  unsisterly,  and  so-forth  I 
But,  if  she's  rich,  she  may  stay  where  she  is  and  do 
nothing,  and  welcome  ;  and  when  she's  got  so  tired  of 
that,  she  can't  stand  it  any  longer,  she  may  marry  a 
man  she  doesn't  love,  and  learns  to  hate  ;  and  if  she 
passes  the  rest  of  her  days  dismally,  in  rearing  discon- 
tented, wayward,  wicked  children, — who  would  never 
have  been  born  to  sin  and  suffering  but  for  her, — for  a 
tyrannical  father,  in  a  home  of  strife  and  manages, 
with  all  her  efforts,  to  undo  a  tenth  part  of  the  mis- 
chief she's  done,  by  and  by,  when  she  dies,  somebody '11 
write  a  beautiful  obituary  about  her,  and  put  in,  '  She 
hath  done  what  she  could  !' — I've  read  enough  of  such 
in  my  time,     I've  seen  enough  of  such  marriages." 

She  stopped ;  but  it  was  evidently  for  breath,  not 
words.  Herman's  attentive  eyes  asked  for  more.  It  is 
usually  an  agreeable  thing,  to  an  intelligent  observer  of 
life,  to  be  allowed  to  take  an  observation  of  it  from  the 
different  point  of  view  of  another  intelligent  observer. 
She  went  on :  "  You  are  a  young  man,  Mr.  Arden ; 
and,  as  you  said,  I  am  an  qM  woman ;" 

"  Comparatively,"  said  the  wretch.  "  Older  than 
the  other  Sister,  I  thought.     She  is  very  young." 

"  Old  enough  to  box  your  ears,  sir,  if  you  give  me 
any  more  of  your  nonsense ! — older  than  her  age  and 
yours  put  together.  Yes,  I  shall  be  sixty-nine  years 
old,  if  it  please  the  Lord  to  prolong  my  evil  and  sinful 
days  six  weeks  longer." — 

"  I  should  not  have  imagined  it,"  said  Herman,  with 
perfect  sincerity. — 

"And  not  ashamed  to  own  it,  if  I'd  only  spent  my 
time  better.  As  it  is,  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  married 
life,  and  thouglit  about  it  a  little,  too ;  or  I  might  have 
entered  into  it, — well,  half  a  dozen  times  over,  at  least.'* 


THE    SISTEKS    OF  CHAKITY.  313 

"  Among  the  Mormons  V 

"  No.  I'd  have  choked  any  lover  I  ever  had, — if  I'd 
married  him, — I'm  sure,  in  the  honeymoon." 

"  Oh  !  the  '  Female  Bluebeard  '  1" 

"  Just  so,"  said  she,  absently.  ''  Three  kinds  of 
marriages  there  are,  my  son ;" — she  coimted  them  on 
her  fingers ; — **  the  first,  that's  rare  ; — that's  made  in 
heaven; — they  say  that  all  are,  but  that's  because  they 
don't  know  ; — the  second, — that's  common  enough,  I 
hope, — made  on  earth  ; — the  third, — that'*  common 
enough,  and  too  common,  I  happen  to  know,— made  in 
the  other  place,  and  a  trap-door  to  jerk  folks  down  into 
it !     You  understand  ?" 

''  Partly  ;  but  I  wish  you  would  be  so  very  good  as 
to  let  me  have  your  commentary." 

''Well,  the  last  and  worst  speaks  for  itself;  and  it 
isn't  necessary,  nor  charitable,  to  say  much  about  it. 
It's  when  people,  who  are  naturally  aggravating  to 
each  other,  marry  from  interested  motives,  or  from  a 
mistake  that  they  find  out  when  it's  too  late,  and  don't 
try,  as  they  ought  and  as  some  do,  to  make  the  best  of 
it ;  and  the  tie  between  'em  is  like  a  bunch  of  thistle- 
burs  between  the  manes  of  two  colts,  that  pricks,  and 
goads,  and  tears,  and  crazes,  as  long  as  it  sticks  'em 
together.  The  middle  one,  I  said,  was  made  on  earth  ; 
that's  when  all  that  the  Jenny-bird  wants  is  a  nest,  and 
a  mate  to  feed  her  in  it ;  and  she  don't  see  much  difier- 
ence  between  the  first  that  happens  to  twitter  to  her 
and  the  others,  provided  he  knows  how  to  feather  his 
nest  and  bring  in  plenty  of  nice  things  for  her  and  her 
yonng  ones  ;  and  their  tempers  chance  to  suit  each 
other  on  trial ;  and  he  minds  his  business,  and  she 
minds  hers  ;  and  they  get  used  to  each  other,  and  bill 
and  coo  when  they  meet,  and  are  happy  enough  apart 
U 


314  HERMAN. 

to  be  sure,  but  ratlier  happier,  after  all,  when  they  are 
together. 
'''And  the  first  kind?" 

"  Ah  !  that  I  know  less  of.  You'll  find  out  about 
that  for  yourself  one  of  these  days,  I  hope, — that  is,  if 
you  marry  at  all,  Mr.  Arden." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Herman,  pressing  her  hand 
cordially ;  "  but  may  I  not  hear  a  little  about  it  before- 
hand?"' 

''  True  boy  !  an't  you  ?  You  must  suck  your  orange 
a  little,  at  least,  all  the  morning,  if  you  carCt  cut  it  till 
the  clock  strikes  luncheon-time!  Wait  and  leave  a 
drop  or  two  of  juice  in  it,  I  advise  you. — The  last,  I 
can  only  guess  at ;  for  the  best  kinds  of  happiness 
don't  show  much  on  the  outside.  But,  if  I  must  say 
something  about  it,  I  suppose  it  is  when  two  people, 
upright  and  blameless  towards  the  rest  of  the  world, 
are, — God,  who  made  them  so,  only  knows  why^ — pe- 
culiarly pleasant  and  delightful  to  one  another, — really 
are  so,  and  don't  merely  fancy  they  are  till  they  can't 
help  themselves,  and  then  change  their  minds ; — wdien 
they'd  rather  sit  side  by  side  in  a  barn  than  apart  in  a 
palace,  but  yet  are  too  kind  to  each  other  to  marry  till 
they  can  afford  oomething  better  than  a  barn  to  sit  in, 
for,  when  the  wind  comes  in  the  cold  cracks,  comfort 
and  peace  are  apt  to  fly  out  together ;  when  the  very 
foot  of  the  one,  '  as  he  comes  up  the  stair,'  as  the  old 
song  says, — I  used  to  sing  it, — '  has  music  in't,'  to  the 
other,  more  than  the  tongues  of  all  the  flatterers  in  the 
world ;  when  each  always  brings  out  what  is  happiest 
and  best  in  the  other,  and  each  character  gives  to  the 
other  just  what  the  other  wants ;  and  the  man  glows 
tenderer  and  all  the  nobler  for  that,  and  the  woman 
nobler  and   all   the  tenderer  for  that ;  and  so  tl  e  tw<> 


THE    SISTEES    OF    CHAUITY.  315 

human  souls  mix  in  each;  and  they  strengthen,  and 
Bweeten,  and  hallow  each  other,  into  two  blessed  bles- 
sing guardian  angels. 

"  IS'ow,  Mr.  Arden,  young  folks  will  be  curious  ;  and 
I  dare  say  you  wanted  to  know,  and  were  too  polite  to 
ask,  how  1  came  to  be  what  I  am.  Humanly  speaking, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  believe  it  was  because  /was  dis- 
appointed in  love, — such  love  as  that.  I  see  you're 
pricking  up  your  ears,  iny  son ;  but  you're  doomed  to 
be  disappointed  yourself,  if  you  expect  to  hear  any  ro- 
mance from  such  a  matter-of-fact  old  woman,  just  as 
the  girls  are  when  they  tease  me  to  tell  them  my  story. 
God  has  all  kinds  of  ways  and  means  to  drive  and 
draw  perverse  souls  to  his  ends.  It  wasn't  in  any  lover 
in  particular  that  I  was  disappointed,  but  in  an  oppor- 
tunity to  enter  into  that  last  sort  of  wedlock ;  and 
luckily  I  had  sense  enough  to  feel,  that  neither  of  the 
other  two  sorts  would  do  for  me.  I  had  offers  enough, — 
I  may  say  without  vanity,  now  that  the  time  for  'em 
has  been  gone  by  for  some  more  years  than  you've 
lived ; — and  more  shame  for  me,  for  I  was  a  sad  flirt., 
and  drew  men  on  when  I  oughtn't ;  and  I  liked  this 
one  for  this,  and  that  one  for  that,  but  no  one  for  every- 
thing, and  many  for  companions,  but  no  one  for  a 
master.  I  was  a  wild  unruly  thing  enough,  in  those 
days — not  what  you'd  call  a  bad-hearted  girl,  I  hope, 
but  thoughtless  and  lawless,  and  bent  on  nothing  but 
amusing  myself,  and  having  my  own  way.  I  hardly 
Tvent  near  my  director  more  than  twice  a  year.  I'd  run 
down  a  whole  square  if  I  saw  him  coming,  to  get  out 
of  his  way  ;  and  if  he  sent  for  me,  and  I  had  to  go,  I'd 
have  so  little  to  confess  to  him,  that  he'd  say,  '  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  this  is  all,  my  daughter  ?'  and  then 
I'd  answer,  '  Why  goodness  gracious,  father,  no  !    How 


316  HEEIVIAN. 

can  you  possibly  expect  me  to  remember  half?'  When 
he  set  me  my  penance,  I  used  to  forget  it  before  I 
reached  home  or,  at  all  events,  before  I'd  done  it ;  so  he 
had  to  write  it  down  for  me  on  a  piece  of  paper ;  and 
then  I  lost  that,  and  was  afraid  to  tell ;  and  I  ate  meat 
fast-days  half  the  time,  and  did  and  left  undone  every- 
thing I  oughtn't,  jost  in  that  heedless  way ;  and  all 
the  while  I  was  dressing,  and  dancing,  and  riding,  and 
singing,  and  laughing,  and  talking,  from  morning  till 
night,  with  a  pack  of  other  young  folks  of  my  own  age, 
just  as  frivolous  and  flighty  as  I. 

"  Well,  that  was  very  pleasant  for  some  years  ;  but 
pretty  soon  they  began  to  pair  off"  and  go,  the  boys  into 
their  oflices  and    counting-rooms,   and  the  girls  into 
their  nurseries  ;  and  I  had  to  find  myself  younger  com- 
panions, or  go  without,  which  was  not  quite  so  agreea- 
ble.    However,  I  made  the  best  of  it.     I  was  called 
handsome  then ;  and  my  spirits  were  high  ;  and  the 
brother  I  lived  with   (I  was  an  orphan)  w^as  pretty 
wealthy,  and  pretty  extravagant  too,  I'm  afraid,  and 
kept  open  house ;  so  that  I  was  surrounded  with  silly 
fellows  enough  of  all  ages,  and  enjoyed  myself  tolera- 
bly well   some   years  longer;    bnt  that  couldn't   last 
always,  and  I  began  to  have  my  trials  at  home.     My 
brother's  own  family  was  large,  and  growing  larger ; 
and  so  were  his  expenses.     His  wife  was  rather  quick- 
tempered ;  and  so  was  I.     The  children  took  after  us 
both  in  that ;  and,  though  he  was  naturally  rather  fond 
of  me  than  otherwise,  he   began  to  think  we  were 
rather  too  many  for  one  house  to  hold.     So  ho  would 
encourage  the  visits  of  two  or  three  old  heaux  of  mine, 
that  I'd  led  on  and  then  refused,  and  who  of  course,  it 
didn't  give  me  any  particular  pleasure  to  see,  in  hopes 
I'd  change  my  mind.     And  when  he  saw   I'd  have 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY.  317 

nothing  to  say  to  'em,  it  would  sometimes  make  him 
cross. 

"  That  made  my  home — his  home  I  mean, — uncom- 
fortable ;  and  when  I  went  out  to  change  the  scene  a 
little,  it  still  weighed  on  my  mind,  and  spoiled  my 
spirits ;  and  then  I  wouldn't  always  receive  as  much 
attention  as  I  liked,  or  was  used  to.  The  night  I  was 
twenty,  1  had  a  regular  cry,  I  remember;  and  the 
next  ball  I  went  to,  there  were  some  gay  little  Creoles 
there  from  Xew  Orleans ;  and  all  the  good  partners 
were  running  after  them.  I  had  only  two  invitations 
to  dance  that  whole  evening ;  and  at  supper -time  I  was 
quite  forgotten  and  left  by  myself;  till  one  of  the 
slighted  gentlemen  I  told  you  of  spied  me,  and  seized 
his  opportunity  to  say,  '  I  think  you'll  have  to  make 
the  most  of  me,  this  time.  Miss  Caro.'  I  had  to  take 
his  arm,  and  go  in  with  him ;  because  I  didn't  know 
what  else  to  do.  I  didn't  choose  to  have  it  appear  that 
I  was  overlooked.  But  I  was  so  angry,  that  every 
mouthful  he  gave  me  seemed  to  stick  in  my  throat. 
When  I  got  home  that  night,  I  sat  down  on  my  bed 
opposite  my  glass,  and  let  down  my  curls  all  around 
me,  and  said  to  myself,  ^  So,  my  dear,  they  want  to  put 
you  on  the  shelf;  that's  plain  !  I'm  sorry  for  it ;  for  I 
don't  see  that  you  look  superannuated  at  all,  and  I'm 
sure  you  don't  feel  so ;  but  I  don't  see  what  we  are 
going  to  do  about  it.' 

"  After  that,  I  wouldn't  go  to  any  more  parties  ;  but 
I  didn't  find  that  my  home  grew  much  pleasanter. 
How  I  did  long  to  be  independent !  But  marrying 
seemed  to  me  to  be  an  odd  contrary  way  to  bring  that 
about.  I  had  about  five  hundred  dollars  a  year  of  my 
own,  to  be  sure,  and  might  have  taken  cheap  lodgings 
for  myself,  somewhere ;  but  I  thought  'twould  be  so 


318  HERMA>f. 

dull  and  lonesome  for  me  !  I  had  always  been  used  to 
see  everything  pretty  and  cheerful  about  me,  and  a  good 
deal  going  on ;  and  if  my  relations  weren't  always  very 
good-natured  to  me,  nor  I  to  them  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  their  voices  and  footsteps  round  me  w^ere  a 
good  deal  better  than  nobody's. 

"  How  I  did  envy,  those  days,  the  little  country- 
woman who  brought  us  in  our  eggs,  and  butter,  and 
fruit,  in  her  little  waggon,  twice  a  week.  I  rode  out 
to  see  her  place  once.  She  was  a  farmer's  widow,  and 
had  an  orchard,  and  pasture,  beautiful  cows,  and  a 
pretty  garden,  and  took  •care  of  them  all  herself,  with  a 
younger  brother,  who  lived  with  her,  and  one  or  two 
servants.  She  bustled  about,  and  churned,  and  gar- 
dened, and  picked  her  fruit,  and  milked  her  cows,  and 
drove  her  pony  to  and  from  town  in  the  fresh  early 
mornings.  She  had  plenty  of  work  and  plenty 
of  amusement,  neighbours  coming  and  going  ah 
the  time,  and  a  pleasant  word  for  everybody,  and 
a  pleasant  word  from  everybody,  and  was  laying 
up  money  all  the  time,  to  spend  as  she  liked.  But, 
bless  you,  my  son,  you  know  that,  even  if  I  hadn't 
been  brought  up  not  to  know  how  to  do  much,  it's 
contrary  to  nature  that  a  lady  should  do  anything  for 
her  living.  It's  as  much  as  she  can  do,  and  more  too, 
sometimes,  to  get  leave  to  work  for  other  people  ;  and 
I  had  no  great  inclination  at  that  time  to  exert  myself 
for  anybody  else.  My  heart  was  all  bent  on  self  and  the 
world.  I'd  have  worked  with  a  good  will  and  all  my 
might,  to  make  myself  well  off  in  this  life;  but  I  hardly 
ever  thought  anything  about  the  other. 

"  When  I  was  a  school-girl,  there  was  a  poor  old 
maiden  lady  I  used  to  call  Aunt  Ruthy,  and  go  to  see 
very  often,  and  carry  her  flowers  whenever  I  had  a 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHAPJTY.  319 

hmtquet ;  because  I  pitied  her  so.  It's  almost  the  only 
good  thing  about  me  then,  that  I  can  remember.  She 
was  so  grateful,  poor  soul  I — she  loved  me  dearly,  and 
would  tell  me  all  her  troubles.  Girls  like  to  hear 
other  people's,  before  thev  have  any  of  their  own.  She 
bad  just  about  enough  money  to  pay  her  board  and 
buy  her  caps,  but  nobody  tliat  belonged  to  her,  and 
nothing  to  do.  She  was  a  timid,  moping  thing  natu- 
rally, and  couldn't  do  much  to  help  and  cheer  herself; 
and  she  couldn't  endure  solitude.  It  killed  her  at 
last.  She  went  crazy,  and  died  in  an  asylum ;  where  I 
thought,  when  I  went  there  to  see  her,  she  seemed  hap- 
pier than  she  ever  did  before  she  went  in.  When  her 
acquaintances  could  make  it  convenient,  they'd  ask  her 
to  come  and  st§y  with  them,  out  of  charity  ;  and  then 
I  would  see  her  creeping  round,  so  pale  and  meek,  iu 
other  people's  houses,  always  taking  the  worst  of  every- 
thing when  she  helped  herself,  and  only  the  second 
best  when  other  people  helped  her;  and  though  she 
had  been  brought  up  as  delicately  as  any  of  them,  I've 
known  that  woman  actually  go  down  into  their  kitch- 
ens, among  tlieir  strange  servants,  and  do  up  muslins, 
or  make  cake,  or  anything  else,  just  so  that  they  might 
find  her  useful,  and  not  want  to  get  rid  of  her  so  soon ; 
and  she  would  stay  so  long,  that  at  last  they'd  think 
they  must  give  her  a  hint ; — a  very  little  one  would  do, 
and  mortify  her  half  to  death  besides,  for  she  had  very 
lady-like  feelings ; — and  then  she'd  go  back  to  her  dis- 
mal little  room,  and  take  to  her  bed,  and  cry  for  a 
week ;  till  I  found  out  she  was  there,  and  ran  in  to 
make  her  laugh  and  cheer  her  up.  Xow,  I  had  always 
said  that,  whatever  I  did,  I  wouldn't  be  like  Aunt 
Kuthy. 

"  But  one  day,  when  I  came  home  from  spendmg 


320  HERMAN. 

a  week  with  a  married  school-mate  in  the  country,  and 
was  just  going  to  run  up  stairs  witli  my  shawl  and 
parasol,  my  sister  in-law  put  herself  in  my  way  in  the 
drawing-room  door,  and  wliispered  in  a  hurry,  coloring 
up  a  little,  '  Mr.  Carroll  has  got  your  chamber,  Caro. 
My  sister  and  her  children  had  the  west-rooms,  and 
we  didn't  expect  you  back  quite  so  soon  ;  so  I  told 
Phillis  to  put  your  things  into  the  third-story  lumber- 
room,  and  clean  it  up  nice  for  you ;  and  we'll  have  the 
porter  up  in  the  afternoon  to  move  out  the  trunks  and 
boxes.  There's  a  beautiful  view  there  over  the  roofs  ; 
and  husband  says  we  must  have  another  spare 
chamber.' 

"  I  ■  didn't  say  one  word.  It  seemed  to  take  my 
breath  away.  My  chamber  was  my  nursery,  where 
mamma  used  to  come  in,  in  her  beautiful  ball-dresses, 
to  kiss  me  and  tuck  me  up  evenings  before  she  went 
out,  and  my  brothers  used  to  bounce  through  the  door 
when  school  was  let  out,  and  throw  down  their  satchels 
and  toss  me  up  in  the  air.  I'd  slept  in  it  all  my  life, 
and  felt  as  if  'tw^as  almost  as  much  mine  to  live  in  as 
my  own  body. 

"  I  w^alked  up  the  three  flights  of  stairs.  The  room 
had  been  swept  and  dusted ;  and  Phillis  had  laid  all 
the  old  pieces  of  carpet  and  matting  smooth  over  the 
bare  floor,  and  stacked  up  the  boxes  and  trunks  in  one 
corner  as  well  as  she  knew  how ;  for  I  always  gave  her 
my  cast-otf  finery,  and  she  was  fond  of  me.  But, — dear 
me  ! — how  I  did  feel ! — like  a  steamer  with  her  safety- 
valve  screwed  down.  I  wonder  I  didn't  blow  up,  with 
my  pent-up  feelings.  There  wasn't  a  soul  I  would  say 
a  word  to ;  and  I  couldn't  even  cry,  for  fear  they'd  see 
my  red  eyes.  '  Well,'  thought  I  to  myself ;  '  wait  a 
bit,  I'll  soon  catch  up  with  you.  Here's  the  first  step, 
Aunt  Euthy.' 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHAEITY.  321 

"  That  afternoon,  I  ordered  my  horse,  and  rode  out 
alone,  wondering  how  long  I'd  be  allowed  to  keep  him, 
and  thinking  enough,  you  may  be  sure.  When  I  came 
near  home, — we  lived  just  at  the  edge  of  the  city, — not 
being  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  back  to  the  lumber-room, 
I  reined  him  in  on  the  brow  of  a  steep  little  hillock, 
and  sat  still,  looking  at  the  sunset.  One  of  my  little 
nephews,  who  was  always  playing  some  prank  or  other, 
shot  him  with  a  blunt  arrow,  out  trom  behind  a  bush. 
He  started  ;  and,  as  I  caught  up  the  reins  tighter, — he 
was  very  spirited,  and  used  to  hunting, — he  leaped  with 
me  down  twelve  feet  sheer,  and  stood  still,  trembling  a 
little.  I  did  not  fall ;  but  I  felt  my  head  terril)ly  hurt 
by  the  jar.  My  brain  seemed  crushed  to  a  quaking, 
aching  jelly.  I  grew  dizzy  and  blind,  and  laid  my 
face  down  on  his  mane,  and  clasped  my  arms  round 
his  neck,  in  hopes  he'd  carry  me  of  his  own  accord  to 
his  stable,  where  they'd  know  me  and  take  care  of  me. 
Little  Bobby  came  out,  crying  terribly.  He  was  my 
pet,  and  didn't  mean  any  harm.  He  only  did  it  out  of 
.fun.  He  led  me  home,  begging  me,  all  the  way,  not 
to  tell.     I  never  did. 

"  When  they  saw  me,  they  were  only  too  glad  to 
carry  me  back  into  my  own  chamber;  but  I  had  some- 
thing else  to  think  about.  I'd  rather  by  half  have  been 
safe  and  sound  in  the  garret.  The  doctor  came  ;  and, 
by  the  measures  he  took,  I  knew  he  thought  the  case 
was  pretty  serious  ;  but  they  wouldn't  let  me  see  a 
priest,  for  fear  'twould  agitate  me ;  and  how  could  I 
have  confessed,  if  he  had  come  ?  My  memory  was 
oddly  affected.  I  could  recollect  things  as  well  as 
ever,  but  often  not  ,words ;  and  when  I  could,  I  used 
them  half  the  time  at  cross  purposes. 

"  I  went  to  sleep,  and  dreamed  I  had  died.  My 
14* 


322  HERMAN. 

soul  liew  up,  light,  like  a  balloon,  away  from  the 
earth,  wliile  I  tried  to  hold  on,  first  by  the  grass,  and 
stones,  and  bushes,  and  then  by  the  trees,  and  chim- 
neys, and  mountains,  and  then  the  clouds,  and  rain- 
bows, and  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars ;  but  each  and  all 
they  slid  away,  one  after  the  other,  from  my  slippery 
fingers ;  and  up,  and  up,  and  up,  I  went,  and  presently 
I  was  on  high  among  the  four-and-twenty  elders,  and 
the  sea  of  glass,  and  all  that  you  read  about  in  the  Apo- 
calypse. Then  the  Lamb  that  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
throne  opened  its  mouth,  and  began  to  speak  to  me, 
and  order  me  to  give  an  account  of  my  deeds  done  in 
the  body.  I  thought  and  thought,  and  tried  and  tried, 
with  all  my  might,  to  remember  one  good  thing  to  tell ; 
but  I  couldn't,  to  save  my  soul ;  and  then  I  thought 
I'd  hold  my  tongue,  and  not  say  anything  at  all,  and 
that  would  be  next  best ;  but  the  truth  seemed  all  at  once 
to  begin  to  move  and  stir  underneath  it  just  like  a  worm  ; 
and  I  found  it  would  speak  of  itself,  do  what  I  would ; 
and  then  I  heard  it  say,  '  I  haven't  done  anything  at 
all,  but  be  an  idle,  godless  flirt,  and  a  cumberer  of  the 
ground !'  '  There,'  thought  I,  '  young  woman  !  ^NTow 
you've  done  it !'  I  looked  round  for  the  Yirgin  to  say 
a  good  word  for  me  ;  but  she  hid  her  face  in  her  liands, 
and  burst  into  tears.  Then  I  seemed^  to  begin  to  go 
down  again,  down,  and  down,  and  down,  head  fore- 
most, in  the  dark ; — for  I'd  been  struck  blind  by  the 
light  of  Heaven,  because  I  hadn't  been  in  the  habit  of 
looking  up  to  it  to  get  used  to  it ; — and  I  heard  a  great 
wide  hiss  coming  up  under  me,  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
felt  a  horrid  heat  on  my  forehead,  growing  hotter  and 
hotter.  But  then  I  woke  up  in,  my  own  bed,  fright- 
ened out  of  my  wits,—  and  all  the  more  because  I 
couldn't  speak  intelligibly,  to  tell  anybody  what  the 


THE    SISTEES    OF    CHAKITY.  323 

matter  was, — to  find  that  the  noise  was  only  the  buz- 
zing in  my  ears,  and  the  heat  the  flushing  of  my  face; 
but,  as  to  the  rest,  I  couldn't  explain  it  away  quite  so 
easily. 

"  A  few  days  after  the  doctor  said  to  me,  in  a  new 
way,  as  if  he  meant  it, — they'd  been  trying  to  make 
me  believe  it,  all  along,  but  I  knew  better, — '  You're 
doing  well ! — quite 'out  of  danger,'  '  Xot  quite,'  thought 
I,  'yet!  I've  got  a  reprieve;  and  I'm  glad  enongh  of 
that ;  but  we're  all  under  sentence  of  death  ;  and,  when 
least  we  think  of  it,  in  comes  the  warrant.  I  mean,  for 
one,  to  be  better  prepared  for  it  the  next  time !' 

'*  He  had  got  a  little  Sister  of  Charity,  to  come  in 
and  take  care  of  me  through  the  worst  of  it,  and  for  a 
week  or  two  after ;  because  he  thought  I  needed  more 
skilful  nursing  than  I  was  likely  to  get  otherwise; 
though  my  sister-in-law,  I'll  do  her  the  justice  to  say, 
was  terribly  shocked,  and  as  kind  as  could  be.  I  dare 
say  she  always  would  have  been,  if  she  could  only  have 
had  her  own  house  to  herself.  It  may  sound  like  an 
Irish  bull,  Mr.  Arden,  but  all  my  experience  and  obser- 
vation has  gone  to  show  that  family  union  isn't  pro- 
moted by  too  many  branches  of  a  family  crowding 
together  under  one  roof.  I  don't  say  it  mayn't  be  ne- 
cessary for  'em  sometimes  to  do  it ;  and,  if  the  Lord 
ordains  it  for  'em.  He  can  make  a  way  for  'em  to  bear 
it.  But  it's  a  temptation ;  and,  where  they're  at  lib- 
erty to  choose,  I'm  sure  it's  better  for  'em  to  meet  now 
and  then  with  pleasure  and  good-will,  than  to  live 
together  with  discontent  and  mutual  annoyance. 

"  My  nurse  was  one  of  the  best  women  I  ever  saw, 
and  just  like  a  mother  to  me.  When  she  left  me,  I 
missed  her  so,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do ;  and  as  soon 
as  I  could  walk  out,  I  called  to  see  her.     She  was  put- 


324  HERMAN. 

ting  up  work  for  some  bright-looking  poor  girls,  with 
another  Sister  to  help  her,  as  brisk  and  pleasant-looking 
as  she  was,  in  a  cheerful,  snug,  sunny  little  parlour,  with 
geraniums  and  tea-roses  growing  in  the  window  ;  and 
I  could  hear  little  children's  voices  saying  hymns  in 
the  next  room.  '  Dear  me,  Sister,'  I  sighed  out,  '  how 
happy  you  do  seem  !' 

"  '  So  I  am,  my  dear,'  says  she,  '  thanks  to  a  good 
God,  who  brought  me  here ;  but  you  mustn't  imagine 
I  didn't  have  my  trials  out  in  the  world,  as  well  as 
other  folks.  When  my  poor  dear  husband  died,  the 
whole  earth  seemed  to  me  like  a  great  lighted  tomb, 
with  me  sitting  alone  in  it,  and  all  the  other  people 
racing  to  and  fro  round  me  and  chasing  after  shadows; 
and  I  thought  the  din,  and  glare,  and  emptiness,  and 
vanity,  and  solitude,  would  drive  me  crazy.  But  I 
found  the  poor  and  sick  were  good  company  for  me, 
after  all.  I  could  forget  my  own  troubles  in  thinking 
about  theirs ;  and  it's  strange  how  much  easier  to  bear 
other  people's  troubles  always  seem,  than  one's  own. 
Besides,  I  learned  to  take  theirs  on  my  shoulders  ;  and 
BO,  when  I  could  relieve  them,  I  got  relief  myself.  Eeli- 
gion's  a  great  comfort.' 

"  '  Keligion  !'  said  I, '  my  goodness !  You  don't  call 
that  a  comfort,  do  you  ?  "Why  'twas  that,  and  nothing 
else,  that  made  me  cry  and  tremble  so  that  night,  when 
I  woke  up,  and  couldn't  tell  you  what  the  matter  was ! 
Why,  I  think  it's  the  most  awful  thing  in  the  whole 
universe!' 

"  '  That  can  only  be  when  we  don't  live  according 
to  it,  my  dear,'  said  she. 

"  '  I'm  going  to  live  according  to  it,  henceforth,  at 
any  rate,'  said  I ;  '  but  I  don't  expect  I'll  ever  find  it 
very  entertaining.' 


THE    SISTERS    OF  CHAKITT.  325 

"  She  took  me  out  with  her,  though,  as  soon  as  I 
was  strong  enough ;  and  we  went  round  together 
among  her  poor;  and  I  was  pleased  to  see  how  they 
looked  up  to  her,  and  loved  her.  She  gave  advice  to 
one,  clothes  to  another,  and  dressed  a  cut  or  a  scald  for 
another ;  and  I  emptied  my  little  purse,  and  bought 
flannel,  and  cotton,  and  lint,  and  a  couple  of  oranges 
for  a  poor  man  that  we  found  gasping  with  consump- 
tion up  in  a  hot  attic  under  a  stove-pipe.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  feverish,  famished,  thankful  look,  that  he 
snatched  them  with.  I  never  bought  anything  scarcely 
that  gave  me  so  much  pleasure.  I  always  did  pity  the 
poor  when  they  came  in  my  way. 

"  I  liked  the  Sister's  busy,  stirring  way  of  serving 
God.  The  contemplative  life  wouldn't  have  suited 
me.  I  told  her  I  believed  I  would  be  good,  if  I  could 
only  live  with  her.  She  said,  '  I  hope  you'll  be  good, 
my  dear,  live  where  you  will.'  But  I  couldn't.  Some 
saints  have  led  holy  lives,  to  be  sure,  in  the  midst  of 
distractions.  There's  nothing  grace  can't  do,  if  you 
only  have  it.  But  then  there  are  all  sorts  of  gifts ;  and 
some  are  Attest  for  one  thing  and  some  for  another. 
When  people  are  just  beginning  their  lives,  if  they 
only  begin  straight  it  must  make  it  a  great  deal  easier 
for  'em  to  go  on  so;  but  I  was  no  chicken,  and  had  a 
whole  host  of  bad  habits,  that  everything  about  me 
helped  to  keep  up.  I  wasn't  particularly  ill-disposed, 
that  I  know  of;  but  'twas  my  nature  always  to  be  up 
to  something;  and  if  it  didn't  happen  to  be  a  good 
thing,  then  it  had  to  be  a  bad.  It  had  got  to  be 
second  nature  with  me,  whenever  I  was  in  company, 
to  be  either  vain  and  coquettish,  or  jealous  and  envi- 
ous ;  and,  at  brother's,  I  was  all  the  time  in  company, 
or  else  wasting  my  time  and  money,  dizening  myself 


326  '  HEKMAN. 

out  for  it.    Besides,  jou  know,  it  wasn't  convenient  for 
him  to  keep  me  much  longer. 

"  When  I  could  see  my  director,  I  had  a  long  full 
talk  with  him,  about  my  concerns  and  difficulties, — 
how  I  needed  a  new  home,  and  wanted  to  lead  a  new 
life,  and  get  ready  for  death;  and  finally,  when  he 
didn't  seem  to  know  what  to  propose,  I  hid  my  face 
between  my  hands,  and  whispered  through  my  fingers 
that  I  wished  I  could  be  a  Sister  of  Charity ;  but  I 
wasn't  good  enough. 

"  How  he  did  jump  !  '  You  must  be  good,  whether 
you  are  one  or  not,'  said  he. 

"  '  To  be  sure,'  said  I ;  '  If  I  can't  be  good  enough 
for  a  Sister,  I  will  never  be  good  enough  for  an 
angel.' 

"  When  he  found  I  was  in  earnest  and  eager  about 
it,  he  put  me  on  probation,  and  spoke  to  my  brother. 
He  was  willing,  and  rather  glad,  I  fancy,  after  the 
first  surprise  was  over.  But  they  all  agreed  I  must 
stay  where  I  was  a  few  months  more,  till  I'd  entirely 
got  back  my  strength;  and  my  director  told  me,  I 
must  make  the  most  of  the  time  to  repair  past  errors 
in  my  family,  and  leave  all  in  peace.  So  I  did.  We 
parted  at  lasi  as  good  friends  as  brothers  and  sisters 
should  be  ;  and  I've  been  thankful  for  it  ever  since.  I 
tried  to  do  my  very  best  in  my  noviciate.  They  made 
it  a  long  one;  because  I'd  been  such  a  skittish  thing; 
but  at  last  they  decided  that  my  vocation  was  genuine. 
So  I  took  the  vows  ;  and  I've  never  repented  it ;  and  it 
seems  to  me  now,  that  I've  become  a  different  creature. 
Doing  seemed  to  help  me  in  praying ;  for  I  knew  the 
Lord  loved  the  poor ;  and  when  I'd  been  trying  to 
serve  them,  I  felt  as  if  He'd  been  working  with  me ; 
and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  could  turn  to  Him  as 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHAEITY.  327 

to  a  Helper  and  Leader  and  Guardian,  instead  of  an 
angry  Judge.  Ah,  sir,  if  jou'd  be  converted,  and  be- 
come a  priest,  you'd  know." 

Herman  at  that  very  instant  dropped  asleep,  instead 
of  answering;  but  he  had  never  been  less  inclined,  than 
then,  to  enter  into  the  Romish  priesthood ;  and,  when 
he  awoke  the  next  morning,  he  was,  if  possible,  still 
less  so.  Sister  Mary  Peter's  recital  had  so  far  tinged 
his  dreams,  that  they  had  been  filled  with  scenes  of 
beneficence ;  but  everywhere,  in  well-known  garret, 
hospital,  jail,  and  cellar,  the  semblance  of  Constance 
had  been  leaning  on  his  arm  or  busied  at  his  side, 
aiding  him  to  comfort  the  sorrowing,  tend  the  sick, 
lead  back  the  erring,  and  lift  up  the  fallen  ;  and,  just  as 
the  unfeeling  Shanghaecock  crowed  under  the  "best- 
chamber"  window  and  waked  him  up,  he  and  she, 
having  done  a  good  day's  work  together,  were  going 
chattily  and  mei'rily  up  the  steps  of  a  small,  newly- 
painted  house  with  "  Dr.  Herman  Arden"  on  the  door, 
at  the  corner  of  two  busy  thoroughfares,  to  a  snug  little 
parlour  where  a  cozy  late  dinner  for  two,  of  her  ordering, 
must,  they  knew,  be  awaiting  them. 

In  spite  of  this  mishap,  he  expected  to  see  her  again, 
as  usual,  as  soon  as  his  morning  toilette  had  been  with 
Sister  Mary's  assistance  completed  ;  but  she  did  not 
come  near  him  till  noon, — not  till  he  had  become  seri- 
ously alarmed  lest  Sister  Mary,  or  some  Jesuitical  ally, 
had  surreptitiously  spirited  her  away  ; — and  when  Sis- 
ter Mary,  finding  it  impossible  to  pacify  him  otherwise, 
went  after  her  and  brought  her  in,  she  sat  shyly  by  the 
window,  bending  over  some  knitting,  said  nothing  even 
to  Sister  Mary,  except  when  she  was  spoken  to,  and,  m 
the  course  of  an  hour,  made  her  escape  again.  He 
could  hear  her,  through  the  thin,  loose  partition  behind 


328  HEKMAN. 

him,  faintly  singing,  in  her  chamber,  low  chants  and 
Misereres. 

This  conduct  of  hers  did  not  greatly  astonish  him. 
He  reminded  himself  that  a  convalescent  could  not  ex- 
pect to  be  treated  with  all  the  indulgence  accorded  to 
a  probably  dying  man ;  and  he  knew  the  exceedingly 
sensitive  delicacy  of  Constance's  character  well  enough 
to  fear  that,  now  that  the  danger  was  over,  she  suffered 
from  the  recollection  of  the  emotion  which  she  had 
been  surprised  into  showing,  at  the  unexpected  sight 
of  him  and  his  danger. 

But  her  conduct,  and  the  latter  explanation  of  it, 
made  him  only  the  more  eager  for  an  opportunity  to 
relieve  her  mind  at  the  same  time  with  his  own,  by  a 
full  declaration  of  such  ardor  of  unchanged  attachment, 
on  his  part,  as  should  throw  hers  completely  into  the 
shade.  They  might  now  be  separated  almost  any  day ; 
and  the  dread  of  her  leaving  him,  and  leaving  him  in 
ignorance  of  her  plans,  and  in  utter  uncertainty  as  to 
when  and  wliere  he  could  meet  her  again,  was  becoming 
from  hour  to  hour  more  intolerable.  Added  to  this 
was  the  idea  of  the  influences  which  might  in  the 
meanwhile  be  brought  to  bear  upon  her  imaginative 
and  excitable  mind,  and  of  the  possibility  that,  under 
a  superstitious  aiid  mistaken  sense  of  duty,  she  might 
already  have  determined  against  so  much  as  listening 
to  a  suit  which  her  poor  defrauded  heart  seconded,-— if, 
indeed,  it  did  second  it ;  for  even  this  was  more  than  he 
knew, — and,  to  all  this,  his  helpless  inability  to  take 
the  case  into  his  own  hands.  Even  if  he  had  been  well 
and  strong  enough  to  rise,  dress,  and  go  to  her, — which 
he  was  far  enough  from  being, — he  was  on  parole^  most 
clearly  implied  if  not  expressed,  with  Sister  Mary;  and 
after  all  that  she  had  already  done  for  him,  he  felt  that 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY.  329 

it  would  he  doubly  disgraceful  to  get  her  into  a 
scrape. 

Though  a  strict  guardian,  she  had.  not  been  in  any 
respect  a  harsh  one.  She  had  kept  him  very  still  till 
his  fever  went  down ;  but,  during  the  last  day  or  two, 
she  had  allowed  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  general  con- 
versation. It  was  conducted  in  a  parliamentary  man- 
ner,— she  being  Mrs.  Speaker,  putting  the  questions, 
and  havino;  the  answers  ostensiblv  addressed  to  her, — 
yet  so  managed  as  probably  in  a  great  degree  to  meet 
the  wishes  of  all  parties  concerned.  Herman  had 
talked,  and  Constance  evidently  listened.  When  he 
could  not  see  her  eyes,  he  could  see  her  color  come  and 
go.  Sister  Mary  had  considerately  and  dexterously 
drawn  from  him  just  what  the  silent  novice  was  most 
likely  to  A^^ish  to  hear, — some  account  of  his  late  occu- 
pations and  way  of  life,  and  the  present  situation  of  his 
family, — finding  an  excuse,  perhaps,  for  the  gratifica- 
tion of  her  own  curiosity  in  gratifying  that  of  her  pro- 
tegee. He  also  had  learned  from  her  something  of  their 
movements,  and  how  they  came,  just  at  the  right  mo- 
ment for  him,  to  be  in  Kansas. 

They  had  been  sent  on  a  mission,  to  see  if  there  was 
need  of,  and  a  good  opportunity  for,  the  foundation  of 
a  charity-school  there,  and  had  been  boarding  for  a  few 
days  with  Mrs.  Dobbs.  They  had  heard  of  the  skirmish 
in  which  Kobbins  was  killed,  gone  to  the  nearest 
village  to  see  whether  their  services  were  required  by 
any  of  the  wounded,  lost  their  way  and  been  belated 
in  returning,  and  come  upon  Herman  when  there  was 
just  twilight  enough  left  for  them  to  see  his  form  by. 
They  had  previously  been  very  near  being  sent  to 
New  Orleans  to  nurse  the  yellow  fever.  Herman's 
hair  almost  stood  on  end,  as  Sister  Mary  mentioned  it ; 


330  HERMAN. 

but  Constciiice  raised  her  eyes,  and  they  shone.  She 
had  liked  it,  evidently.  So  young, — so  out  of  love  with 
life  !  Would  she  like  it  now  ?  He  longed  to  ask  her. 
Sister  Mary  spoke  of  it  very  calmly.  She  was  growing 
old,  she  said.  She  must  soon  leave  the  world,  at  any 
rate.  She  would  rather,  if  she  had  her  choice,  be 
active,  and  go  about,  and  wait  on  others  to  the  last, 
than  live  on  to  a  time  when  she  must  be  idle,  sit  still 
in  her  chair,  and  have  others  wait  on  her.  She  should 
be  glad  to  think  that,  when  she  could  no  longer  serve 
the  Lord  by  her  life,  she  should  serve  Him  by  her  death. 
But  she  felt  as  if  she  might  still  have  eight  or  ten  years' 
work  in  her ;  and  so  she  was  not  sorry,  on  the  whole, 
tliat  it  had  been  put  off  for  the  present. 

"  Where  were  they  to  go  next  V  Herman  had  asked, 
with  unwary  abruptness.  Sister  Mary  had  been  loqua- 
cious as  to  the  past.  As  to  the  future,  she  was  virtually 
dumb  :  "  It  was  impossible  to  say.  Where  they  were 
sent.     Wherever  the  Lord  had  need  of  them." 

On  the  evening  of  this  "  day  of  misfortunes,"  Her- 
man, being  further  goaded,  and  at  the  same  time  in  a 
manner  set  free  from  restraint  by  Constance's  absence, 
made  an  impassioned  appeal  to  the  compassionate 
Duenna. 

Sister  Mary,  sorry  as  she  was  for  him,  declared  that 
she  had  done  already  all  that  she  could  for  him,  and 
more  than  she  could  answer  for  to  her  conscience,  or, 
she  feared,  to  her  confessor.  They  should  not  have 
stayed  at  all,  if  she  had  known  that  Herman  was  going 
to  get  well. 

He  begged  her  pardon  for  having  done  so,  but 
adroitly,  though  sincerely,  suggested,  that  his  getting 
well  was  probably  in  great  part  owing  to  her  staying. 

This  was  manifestly  her  own  opinion,  though  veiled 


THE    SISTERS    OF  CHAKITY.  331 

with  elaborate  humility.  But  she  made  his  convales- 
cence an  aro^ument  with  him  for  his  beins^  too  thank- 
ful,  now  that  his  lite  was  restored  to  liim,  to  care  about 
anything  henceforth  but  spending  it  well. 

This  being  a  view  of  the  state  of  affairs  which  he 
could  not  fully  embrace,  he  nngratefully  adjured  her 
to  tell  him,  at  least,  how  long  it  would  be  before  '*  Sis- 
ter Agnes  Alexis's  "  year  of  service  expired. 

"  Well, — less  than  a  year,  my  son," 

"  But,  how  many  months  ?" 

"  Why, — not  a  great  many,  my  son  ;  but,  if  yon  wish 
to  live  to  see  the  time,  you  must  avoid  excitement.  Yon 
had  a  bad  night  last  night,  in  consequence  of  too  much 
conversation  yesterday ;  and, — if  you'll  excuse  my 
noticing  it, — I  think  that  may  be  the  cause  of  your  l)e- 
ing  a  little  fractious  to-day.  Shall  I  close  the  shutters 
for  you  to  take  a  little  rest  now  ?" 

"  Xo,  thank  you. — Will  it  be  many  weeks  ?" 

Sister  Mary  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  deafness,  which 
was  the  more  remarkable,  that  her  hearing  was  usually 
peculiarly  quick  :  "  Tea  very  weak  ?  I  will  go  and  get 
you  some  stronger." 

"  If  you  do,  the  instant  you  are  out  of  the  room,  I 
shall  spring  out  of  bed,  and  halloo  to  Mr,  Dobbs  to 
bring  me  my  clothes." 

"  Mr.  Arden  I     Are  you  beside  yourself?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  am ! — My  dear,  good,  kind  Sister 
Mary,  I  wouldn't  be,  if  I  could  possibly  help  it ;  but 
do  only  consider  !  Miss  Aspen — Sister  Agnes  Alexis, 
— and  I  have  been  so  perfectly  frank  with  you  from 
the  first  moment  of  our  meeting,  that  you  must 
know  even  better  than  we  do  ourselves,  how  we  stand 
towards  each  other.  Because  she  is  an  honorable 
woman,  and  because  I  am  an  honorable  man,  we  have 


332  HERMAN. 

now  been  the  greater  part  of  a  week  under  the 
same  roof  with  one  another,  in  these  very  trying  and 
peculiar  circumstances,  without  exchanging  a  sentence 
of  what  can  be  called  explanation.  It  shows  what 
good  faitli  we  have  kept  with  you,  that,  on  the  fourth 
and  perhaps  last  day  of  our  stay  togetlier,  I  should  still 
have  these  primary  questions  to  put,  and  put  them  to 
you.  How  can  you  possibly,  with  all  your  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  think  that  it  can  be  in  tny  human 
nature  to  let  yau  carry  her  off,  without  knowing  where, 
to  be  exposed,  for  anything  I  know  to  the  contrary,  to 
plague,  pestilence,  and  famine,  without  knowing 'even 
where,  nor  how  soon,  I  can  take  measures  to  see  her 
again  ?  I  don't  mean  to  go  near  her  until  she  is  free, 
provided  I  can  only  make  sure  of  finding  her  then ; 
but,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  I  must  keep  hold  of  some 
clue  to  her,  if  it  is  onl}^  by  following  her  about  the 
country,  and  not  losing  sight  of  her,  wherever  she  goes ; 
otherwise,  at  the  moment  she  is  released  from  her  vow, 
she  may  be  hundreds  of  miles  away  from  me,  and  re- 
new it  days  or  weeks  before  I  can  get  at  her ;  and  so 
again  the  next  time,  and  the  next,  till  I  have  spent  all 
my  days  in  a  wild-goose  chase  after  her  !"  Herman 
groaned,  as  Sister  Mary  had  never  heard  him  groan 
before. 

Much  moved,  she  put  a  useful  suggestion  in  the 
form  of  a  rebuke,  exclaiming  indignantly,  "  Well, 
then,  sir,  I'm  very  much  surprised  that  you  do  not  ap- 
ply to  some  of  her  relations.  They  are  the  proper  per- 
sons to  go  to  for  information,  of  course." 

"  To  whom,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Why,  her  Aunt  and  Uncle  Konaldson,  I  said,  at 
Baltimore." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.'* 


THE    SI3TEES    OF    CHAEITY,  333 

"And  you  will  be  good  and  patient,  my  son? — 
I  would  be  sorry  to  think  we  had  lost  all  our  labor; 
and  if  you  attempt  to  rise  at  present,  or  travel  too  soon, 
you  must  know  yourself  that  your  wound  will  inflame, 
and  you  will  be  worse  than  ever." — 

"  If  I  can,''  said  Herman,  with  something  of  tlie 
querulousness  of  an  invalid;  "  but  I  must  make  sure  of 
being  on  the  spot,  in  time  to  speak  to  the  Sister;  and 
if  you  will  not  tell  me  when  that  should  be,'" 

"  I'd  tell  you  anything  I  could,  my  son,  with  all  my 
heart ;  but  you  must  see  yom'self,  that  it  isn't  the  thing 
for  me  to  be  making  appointments  of  this  sort."  Her- 
man did  see  it,  and  owned  it;  but  he  sighed,  and 
stirred  restlessly ;  and  she  went  on,  ''  You  needn't 
hurry,  at  all  events.  Mrs.  Ronaldson  is  travelling  jubt 
now,  I  know,  and  not  to  be  at  home  till  the  end  of 
next  month.  And  I  give  you  my  word,  that  that  will 
be  soon  enough  for  you,  and  too  soon.  If  you  were  in 
Baltimore  now,  you  couldn't  do  anything  about  your 
business  till  some  time  after  that." 

Herman  thanked  her  for  this  and  all  her  kindness,  as 
warmly  as  he  had  expostulated  with  her  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore, gave  her  fifty  dollars  for  her  charities,  begged  her  to 
call  upon  him  if  it  should  ever  be  in  his  power  to  render 
her  any  service,  and  told  her  that  he  should  always  be- 
lieve that,  under  Providence,  he  owed  his  recovery 
from  the  only  two  illnesses  of  his  life  to  ''  his  two  sis- 
ters.^^  Sister  Mary  had  heard  enough  about  Clara  be- 
fore, to  feel  rewarded. 

The  next  morning  brought  Marshall,  his  baggage, 
and  Dr.  Bayou,  who  was  now  to  take  the  chief  super- 
vision of  Herman.  At  noon,  Sister  Mary  l)rought  in 
Constance,  to  say  good-bye.  She  did  not  say  it.  She 
did  not  speak.     He  held  out  his  hand.     She  did  not 


334  HEKMAN. 

Beem  to  see  it,  turned,  and  went  out.  Sister  Mary,  for 
the  last  time,  bent  her  tall  old  form  over  him,  arranged 
his  pillows,  and  strove  to  make  him  comfortable  in  her 
kindest  and  most  motherly  way.  Bat  the  pain,  which 
he  was  now  enduring,  was  beyond  her  power  to  relieve. 
She  saw  his  pale  young  face  full  of  strong  anguish 
strongly  borne ;  and  he  saw  actual  tears  in  her  cheerful 
eyes.  Coming  back  again,  and  smoothing  the  counter- 
pane, she  whispered,  "  Take  heart !  take  heart,  my 
dear  !  'Twill  soon  be  over.  Trust  her  to  me.  I  will 
watch  over  her  as  if  she  was  my  daughter,  or  you  were 
my  son."  He  wrung  her  shrivelled  hand,  and  kissed 
it.     The  door  was  shut.     He  was  alone. 

He  heard  a  horse's  hoof  stamp  impatiently  on  the 
loose  gravel  underneath  the  window.  Perhaps  she  was 
there.  Perhaps  he  might  have  one  more  glimpse  of 
her  yet.  Could  he  stand  % — He  could  try.  Clasping 
the  bed-post  with  both  hands,  he  cautiously  lowered  his 
feet  to  the  floor,  got  hold  of  the  back  of  the  high- 
backed  chair  to  support  him,  and  pushing  it  along 
softly  before  him,  reached  the  window  in  spite  of  the 
swimming  of  his  head.  He  peeped  between  the  closed 
shutters  cautiously,  that  he  might  not  be  seen.  A  white- 
covered  butcher's-wagon  was  standing  beneath.  The 
restless  horse  had  turned,  so  that  the  opening  at  the 
back  of  the  wagon  diagonally  fronted  the  window. 
Just  as  Herman  looked  out  of  the  window,  Constance 
looked  out  of  the  wagon.  She  could  not  see  him ;  and 
lie  saw  her  the  longer.  There  was  a  "  divine  despair" 
in  her  eyes.  Then  she  raised  her  handkerchief  in  her 
hand,  and  bowed  her  head  to  it.  She  loved  him  !  He 
would  have  given  his  heart's  blood  to  be  permitted  to 
dr}^,  with  his  own  hand,  those  tears  that  she  was  shed- 
ding.    And  yet, — strange  inconsistency  of  love  ! — those 


THE    SISTEKS    OF    CHARITY.  335 

tears  of  hers,  which  he  could  have  wept  to  see  her 
ehedding,  were  a  greater  comfort  to  him  then  thau 
anything  else  could  give  ;  and  on  the  memory  of  them 
he  was  to  live  henceforth  for  many  a  day. 

Sister  Mary  came  out,  and  climbed  into  the  modest 
chariot.  Mrs.  Dobbs  followed  to  the  wheel  with  vo- 
ciferous farewells.  Silas  Dobbs  scrambled  up  in  front, 
and  whipped  up  Dobbin ;  and  the  wagon  vanished 
behind  the  barn  before  Herman  grew  too  blind  to  see. 
If  he  fainted  now,  it  was  no  matter.  Getting  from  his 
bed  was  all  that  he  had  to  concern  himself  about. 
How  he  was  to  be  got  back,  was  other  people's  affair. 
Is'ot  preferring  to  be  caught  at  the  window,  however, 
he  made,  as  often  as  he  regained  strength  and  con- 
sciousness sufficient,  sundry  efforts  at  locomotion  and, 
at  the  same  time,  with  the  legs  of  the  chair  upon  the 
wooden  floor,  sundry  unearthly  noises  which  speedily 
brought  Marshall,  who  was  eating  his  dinner  below,  to 
the  rescue. 

He  was  rather  astonished  at  finding  his  usually 
rational  charge  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  astride  on  a 
chair,  and  clinging  to  the  back  of  it  with  both  hands, 
with  a  very  pale  face  over  the  top ;  and  his  first  idea 
was  that  Herman,  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  had  beeli  in- 
dulging himself  with  a 

"Ride  a  cock-horse 
To  Banbury  Cross, 
To  see  an  old  woman  jump  on  to  her  horse;" 

in  which  we,  who  are  in  the  secret,  perceive  that  he 
was  not  altogether  wide  of  the  mark ;  except  that  the 
woman  was  young,  and  in  a  wagon.  Getting  very  lit- 
tle explanation  from  Herman,  he  took  him  in  his  arms, 
put  him  to  bed  and,  as  soon  as  he  appeared  capable  of 
comprehension,  suggested  to  him  tliat,  if  he  had  a  fanc^ 


336  HEKMAl^. 

to  sit  np,  he  had  better  at  first  try  being  pillowed  up 
for  a  little  while  where  he  was,  or  at  any  rate  wait  till 
somebody  came  to  assist  him,  to  which  Herumn  meekly 
assented.  He  showed  no  more  signs  of  any  such  fancy 
for  several  days  after. 

The  clock  had  struck  twelve.  Cinderella  was  gone, 
without  even  leaving  him  so  much  as  her  shoe  !  Oh, 
yes,  though  !  There  were  the  flowers  she  had  gathered 
for  him.  He  must  press  and  preserve  them  ;  and  do- 
ing this  and  gumming  them  in  arabesques  and  wreaths 
upon  paper,  as  he  had  seen  her  treat  some  in  former 
times,  afforded  him  occupation  enough  for  two  or  three 
days  after  he  really  became  well  enough  to  sit  up  in 
bed.  But  the  strange,  sweet,  hitter-sweet  episode  was 
over.  The  palace  of  Dainty-Delights  was  disenchanted. 
He  perceived  that  the  apples  were  hectic,  and  the 
oranges  jaundiced,  that  the  green  carpet  did  not  har- 
monize well  with  the  blue,  nor  with  the  yellow  floor, 
and  that  the  lath-and-plaster  walls  had  no  paper  for 
him  to  while  away  his  restless  hours  in  studying.  He 
next  proceeded  to  discover  the  truth  of  the  theory,  that 
women  make  better  nurses  than  men,  but  yet  that  Mrs. 
Dobbs  must  be  one  of  the  exceptions  that  proved  the 
rule ;  for  she  could  no  more  make  Sister  Mary's  place 
good* than  Marshall;  that  serious  illness  was  a  state 
often  less  trying  than  convalescence ;  and  that  it  was 
singular  what  a  difference  physical  weakness  could  cause 
in  one's  power  of  attention ;  for  though  the  Messrs. 
Dobbs  were  all  of  them  intelligent  yeomen,  and 
had  much  to  tell  him  about  the  state  of  affairs  in 
Kansas,  which  was  authentic,  and  no  doubt  important, 
lie  knew  no  more  about  it,  after  they  had  been  hospita- 
bly trying  to  entertain  him  with  it  for  an  hour,  than 
when  they  began. 


THE    SISTERS    OF  CHAEITY.  6'6  » 

The  Kansas  doctor,  on  his  next  friendly  visit,  wai 
less  impressed  with  Herman's  resignation  than  witL 
his  affording  a  remarkable  illustration  of  the  fact,  thai 
few  men,  no  matter  how  skilful  thej  may  be  in  gen- 
eral, can  understand  their  own  cases.  "  I  never^ 
Capting  Dobbs,"  declared  he,  "  see  or  conversed  with  a 
youngster  that  had  more  information,  or  what  you'd 
call  a  better  general  idee  of  physic  and  surgery,  than 
that  there,  up  stairs  ;  but  here  he's  been  remarking  to 
me,  that  he  expects  to  be  able  to  travel  next  week. 
Leevetenant  Marshall,  if  you  let  him  try  it,  I  guess 
you'll  repent  of  it,  and  him,  too.  He's  a  dead  man  if 
be  doos,  as  sure  as  he  lives." 

The  opinion  of  Dr.  Bayou  coincided  in  substance 
with  that  of  Dr.  Coffin,  though  not  in  language,  being 
expressed  in  the  purest  Mississippian,  of  which  I  regret 
that  no  specimen  has  been  preserved  for  me  to  lay  also 
before  my  readers,  for  a  comparison  of  dialects.  Her- 
man submitted  himself,  with  the  best  grace  he  could,  to 
the  decision  of  his  medical  brethren ;  but  his  good  con- 
stitution and  habit  of  health  now  came  to  the  aid  of 
his  wishes,  and  extricated  him  safely  from  their  hands 
before  long,  and  much  sooner  than  they  expected,  in 
spite  of  the  drawbacks  of  homesickness,  restlessness,  and 
irrepressible  anxiety ;  and  he  quitted  Kansas,  after  all, 
with  a  much  lighter  heart  than  that  with  which  he  had 
entered  it. 

15 


338  HEKMAN. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

THE    L.\DY'S    SHRIFT. 

"My  queen  was  crouching  at  my  side, 
By  love  unsceplred  and  brought  low, 
Her  awful  garb  of  maiden  pride 
All  melted  into  tears  like  snow. 

The  mistress  of  my  reverent  thought," 

The  Angel  in  the  House. 

After  Herman's  return  to  Boston,  he  was  much 
of  the  time  in  spirits  so  mysteriously  high,  that  Edward 
declared  it  must  be  a  cure  for  despondency  to  be  shot 
through  the  body,  and  that  if  he  were  entrusted  with 
the  care  of  an  asylum  for  the  insane,  he  should  cer- 
tainly make  targets  of  all  his  melancholy  patients. 
This  remark  of  his  deserves  recording  for  this  reason, 
though  for  this  reason  only:  it  was  the  nearest  to  a 
sportive,  not  to  say  a  good-humored  one,  that  he  made 
at  this  time  and  on  this  occasion.  Quite  contrary  to 
his  wont,  he  was  in  a  state  of  gloomy  and  taciturn  in- 
dignation ;  and,  from  his  unusual  reserve,  it  was  diffi- 
'jult  to  discover  whether  he  was  most  angry  with  the 
Border  Euliians  for  having  shot  Herman,  or  with  Her- 
man for  having  been  shot. 

Even  this,  Herman  bore  with  remarkable  cheerful- 
ness. Perhaps  Constance's  tears  had  watered  his 
hopes,  and  they  grew  so  fast  as  to  over-top  all  minor 
annoyances.  He  was,  however,  restless  and  incapable 
of  settling  himself  to  anything  long.  As  soon  as  he 
was  well  enough,  he  resumed  the  care  of  his  patients 
and  some  charity  pupils  whom  he  had  ;  but  his  own 


339 

studies  seemed  almost  at  a  stand -still,  while  he 
obligingly  read  aloud  to  Clara  more  novels  and  poetry 
than,  on  her  own  account,  she  had  ever  perused  in  her 
life.  To  the  great  improvement  of  her  bloom,  he  rode 
with  her  so  fast  that  she  often  wanted  breath  to  pro- 
test against  his  speed  ;  and  he  had  scarcely  apologized 
for  his  offence  before  it  was  repeated.  He  romped 
with  Tom  and  Bessy,  until  they  pronounced  that  he 
had  grown  ''the  funniest  man  in  the  world, — a  great 
deal  funnier  even  than  Uncle  Edward." 

At  the  same  time,  as  if  for  a  counterpoise  to  all  this, 
he  brought  home  to  Clara  one  sombre  book  after  an- 
other upon  monachism,  mediaeval  art,  Romish  saints, 
&c. ;  till  one  day  she  asked  him  whether  he  meant  to 
decoy  her  into  a  convent,  and  rewarded  him  by  singing 
in  her  very  archest  and  prettiest  w^ay,  a  snatch  of  the 
old  song,  '•  Oh,  is  it  not  a  pity?"  with  its  burden,  ''Xo, 
I  won't  be  a  nun  I" 

Upon  this  he  informed  her,  with  unaccountable 
and  rather  depressing  solemnity,  that  he  seriously 
believed  there  was  a  great  deal  more  of  unearthly 
excellence  and  saintliness  among  the  charitable  or- 
ders of  the  Church  of  Eome  than  the  Protestant 
world  had  ever  given  it  credit  for;  after  which,  he 
went  off"  without  loss  of  time  into  the  very  brownest 
of  brown  studies. 

"  Will  you  go  out  to  walk  with  me  ?"  asked  she  at 
length,  finding  him  dull. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  looking  up  blankly  into  her  face, 
"  I  shall  go  to  Baltimore,  myself." 

''  Shall  you?"  returned  she,  laughing,  "  but  I  shall 
not.  It's  rather  far  for  a  stroll ;  and,  besides,  I  shan't 
trust  myself  there  with  you  at  present.  There  are  too 
many  convents  there.      I   might   find  myself  in  one 


otto  HEKMAN. 

before  I  knew  it.  I  beg  your  pardon,  though  ;  I  for- 
got that  that  seemed  to  be  a  tender  point  with  you, 
w^hen  I  touched  it  just  now.  I  dare  say  many  of  the 
nuns  are  most  excellent  and  interesting." 

"  '  Convents  !'  '  nuns  !'  "  cried  he,  rousing  himself; 
"  I  did  not  say  anything  about  them,  did  I  ?  Why 
should  you  imagine,  that  they  had  anything  to  do  with 
my  going  to  Baltimore  ?" 

"  Why,  I  did  not !  Have  they  ?  Are  you  really 
interested  in  them  ?" 

"  Oh,"  said  he,"  relieved,  and  endeavouring  to 
recollect  himself,  "  there  are  a  great  many  objects  of 
interest  in  Baltimore.  There  is  an  Athenaeum,  a  mon- 
ument to  Washington, — and, — I  believe, — a  bank, 
and," 

"  Toy-shops  and  confectioners'-shops,  I  dare  say," 
suggested  she,  demurely.  "  IS^ever  mind.  Don't  task 
your  memory.  I  can  look  for  my  old  Worcester's 
Geography,  the  next  time  I  go  to  the  garret,  and  find 
out  all  about  it,  no  doubt.  When  do  you  visit  this 
interesting  city  ?" 

"  Oh,  -next  week.     Have  you  any  commands  ?" 

"  Only  to  come  back  safe  and  soon.  Herman,  I 
don't  want  to  ask  you  any  questions  that  are  not  neces- 
sary, but  this  one  I  must,  because  I  have  been  so  fright- 
ened about  you  so  lately :  It  is  no  dangerous  errand 
that  takes  you  to  Baltimore  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,  my  dearest,  no  !  You  will  know  all 
about  it  some  time,  perhaps ;  perhaps,  very  soon." 

"  That  is  all  I  wish  to  know,  until  you  wish  to  tell 
me."  Clara  said  this  in  perfect  good  faith,  with 
respect  at  least  to  any  mere  selfish  inquisitiveness  on 
her  part.  The  vulgar  general  charge  of  idle  feminine 
curiosity  is  sometimes  brought  by  their  inferiors  against 


THK   r.Aiiy's  shrift.  341 

women,  who  rather  deserve  praise  and  admiration  for 
tlieir  eager  and  anxious  sympathy,  and  solicitude  for 
the  welfare  of  those  very  persons  who  ridicule  them 
for  it.  Any  serious  attempt  at  concealment  between 
Herman  and  Clara  was,  however,  a  thing  so  unprece- 
dented, that  she  presently  caught  herself  instinctively 
trying  to  unriddle  it : 

"  Transparent  young  cheat !"  thought  she  ;  "  how 
he  stammered  and  blushed  !  It  must  have  been  about 
something  more  than  my  thoughtless  banter  about  his 
monastic  hobbies, — unless  he  is  really  getting  Roman- 
ized. Herman  could  not !  I  might  have  been  afraid 
of  it  a  few  years  ago  ;  but  now,  with  all  his  fancy 
and  fervor,  he  has  too  much  knowledge  and  clear, 
sound,  strong  good  sense, — unless  the  Roman  Catholics 
are  right,  after  all ;  but  Dr.  Lovel  declares,  and  knows 
how  to  prove,  that  they  are  not ;  and  so  does  Herman, 
too,  I  dare  say. — Imagine  him  starving  and  whipping 
himself,  and  going  down  on  his  knees  to  confess  all  the 
crimes  that  he  never"  committed,  to  a  great,  ignorant, 
puzzle-headed,  '  exile  of  Erin '  of  a  priest !  I  don't 
think  there  can  be  much  danger  of  that. — He  had 
hardly  time  enough  to  fall  in  love  while  he  was  gone; 
and  besides  he  went  nowhere  near  Baltimore.  And 
then  I  don't  think  he  is  ready  yet  to  fall  in  love  with 
anybody  except  that  absurd  Constance.  He  seldom 
cares  to  speak  to  any  lady  here,  except  me.  Can  she 
have  changed  her  mind,  and  he  found  it  out  ?  She  had 
relations  there!  And  can  he  think  of  placing  himself 
at  her  mercy  again  ?  I  hope,  if  so,  at  any  rate,  that 
by  this  time  she  has  learned  better  how  to  prize  him. 

"  Ah,  Herman !  Herman  !  Why  cannot  we  go  on, 
just  as  we  are,  without  any  change  in  our  peaceful, 
pleasant  home  ?     Why  is  it,  that  for  even  you,  who 


342  HERMAX. 

know  go  well  liow  to  win  and  return  a  sister's  affection, 
a  sister's  atfection  cannot  be  enough  ?  Yours  and  Ed- 
ward's makes  my  life  so  sweet  and  blessed  !  Why  is  it 
that,  when  almost  all  men  who  have  sisters  can  command 
a  sister's  affection,  a  sister's  affection  seems  enough  for 
the  happiness  of  scarcely  any  of  them?  And,  yet 
more,  why  is  it  that  so  many  of  them  seem  to  disre- 
gard, if  not  to  spurn  it  utterly  ?  They  do  not  treat 
their  sisters  as  equals,— still  less  as  companions, — still 
less  as  they  do  their  friends.  They  make  them  useful 
when  they  themiselves  are  in  sickness,  want,  or  afflic- 
tion ;  but  when  they  are  well,  wealthy,  and  happy, 
they  leave  them  to  themselves,  and  to  their  vacuity 
and  loneliness ;  and  so  the  poor,  un cherished,  forsaken, 
shaded  things,  (unless  fate  sends  suitors  to  see,  fancy, 
and  carry  them  off  to  brighter  and  warmer  homes  than 
their  own,  or  unless  they  have  a  rare  faculty  of  finding 
sunshine  for  themselves,)  are  too  often  blighted,  mil- 
dewed, and  frost- nipped,  and  become  scare-crows  in 
appearance,  and  nothing  very  cheerful  in  reality. 
I  have  seen  enough  of  it,  since  dear  compassionate  Her- 
man taught  me  to  open  my  eyes  to  the  condition  of 
those  less  fortunate  than  myself.  God  send  liirn  hap- 
piness, and  Constance,  too, — made  worthy  of  him, — 
if  she  is  essential  to  his  happiness  !  I  don't  know  how 
I  could  ever  forgive  her  for  having  made  him  so 
wretched ;  but,  at  all  events,  I  could  try  for  his  sake. 
Perhaps  he  had  reason  to  think  she  would  relent,  but 
would  not  say  so,  for  fear  of  having  afterwards  to  com- 
plain to  me  a  second  time  of  disappointment.  [A  pretty 
good  guess,  that  last  one.  Miss  Clara  !]  But  what  am 
I  about,  to  sit  here,  prying  into  his  thoughts  after  this 
meddlesome  fashion  ?  As  soon  as  he  ought,  he  will  tell 
me  all  that  he  ought;  and  until  then,  as  I  told  him   I 


343 

do  not  wish  to  know."  Clara  found  that  she  had 
worked  a  whole  crimson  tulip  wrong  in  her  tidy,  and 
addressed  all  her  powers  resolutely  to  the  wholesome 
penance  of  picking  it  out. 

Herman  went  to  Baltimore  ;  but  whether  or  not  he 
remembered  to  visit  the  interesting  bank,  monument, 
and  confectioners'  shops,  never  transpired.  It  is,  how- 
ever, I  regret  to  say,  certain  that  he  did  not  lie  in 
ambush  under  the  house  of  St.  Tabitha,  drus:  the 
watchmen,  scale  the  walls  by  night,  and  bring  Con- 
stance down  a  rope-ladder  out  of  a  three-story  window ; 
nor  did  he  break  into  a  secret  conclave  of  Tartarean 
ecclesiastics,  and  demand  his  Eurydice  back  with  a 
moving  mixture  of  threats  and  pathetic  entreaties,  at 
the  risk  of  being  let  through  the  floor  into  the  cellar, 
like  one  of  the  Ravels,  by  means  of  a  trap-door  con- 
veniently disposed  under  the  carpets  for  the  purpose  ; 
nor  did  he  hide  in  one  of  the  pews  of  the  church  of  St. 
Nostrum,  bounce  out,  and  drag  his  lady-love  from  the 
altar,  on  the  occasion  of  her  being  dragged  to  it  by 
opposition  captors  to  renew  her  vows.  It  would  have 
been  much  more  appropriate  to  a  romance,-and  accord- 
ingly much  more  convenient  to  me,  if  he  had  done 
some  one  or  all  of  these  things ;  but  by  that  strict  ad- 
herence to  truth  and  nature,  for  which  I  am  distin- 
guished, (or  mean  to  be,  one  of  these  days,  if  I  can,) 
I  am  forced  to  own,  that  how  romantic  soever  in  his 
feelings,  he  was  apt  to  be  sadly  commonplace  in  his 
doings. 

He  procured  an  excellent  letter  of  introduction  to 
Mr.  Eonaldson,  made  acquaintance  with  his  wife,  and 
when  he  had  found  out  what  a  thoroughly  good,  warm, 
open  heart  she  had,  and  also  had  reason  to  think  that 
she  had  granted  him  a  little  corner  of  it,  he  opened  his 


344  HJsEMAX. 

own  to  her.  ,  The  devotee  m  her  struggled  a  little  at 
first,  faintly,  with  the  woman,  but  had  to  yield  before 
long,  and  yielded  entirely  to  her  natural  sympathy 
with  youth  and  love.  She  gave  Herman  her  best 
wishes  and  advice,  and  made  up  her  mind  that  she  had 
never  quite  thought  her  dear  niece  had  found  her  voca- 
tion. About  his  seeing  her  ?  Oh,  he  should  see  her  in 
her  [Mrs.  Ronaldson's]  own  house,  of  course.  Constance 
was  coming  to  pass  two  or  three  days  with  her  as  soon 
as  she  returned  from  Georgetown ;  and  that  would 
probably  be  next  week.  Her  year  had  just  expired. 
She  was  waiting  only  for  Sister  Mary's  company. 
Constance  was  to  write  and  let  her  know  what  day  to 
send  the  coach  to  the  cars.  She  would  send  Herman 
word ;  and  he  had  better  be  at  her  house,  and  make 
sure  of  an  interview  at  once.- — Any  opposition  to  his 
seeing  Constance,  on  the  part  of  her  superiors  ?  Oh, 
no,  she  thought  not.  Slie  would  be  very  sorry  to 
think  so.  But,  then,  dear  Constance  herself  was 
ardent,  and  sometimes  a  little  wilful,  (though  that  was 
chiefly  before  her  conversion,  and  ought  not  to  be 
remembered  now.)  She  had  been  very  strongly  bent 
on  going  into  the  Sisterhood  ; — nothing  could  stop  her ; 
— and  now  she  might  have  scruples  of  conscience  of 
her  own,  about  letting  herself  be  turned  from  that  line 
of  life.  Mrs.  Honaldson  would  send  for  him  ;  and  he 
had  better  be  on  the  spot.  Herman  was  not  un- 
willing. 

The  coach  rumbled  to  the  door,  and  stopped.  The 
tall,  Diana-like  figure  all  in  black, — the  same  that  had 
haunted  the  farm-house  in  Kansas, — reappeared,  and 
darted  into  the  hall,  into  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Ronaldson. 
They  kissed  each  other,  billing  and  twittering  together 
like  tw^o  Canarv-birds  for  full  five  minutes.     Herman, 


TiiK  l.vdy's  shkift.  3-i5 

in  ambnsli,  peeped  through  the  crack  of  the  parlour- 
door.  He  could  not  have  waited  so  long,  but  for  the 
necessity  of  avoiding  a  denouement  before  the  coach- 
man and  Sambo. 

"  Oh,  dear  Aunt  Cora,  how  dear  you  are  !  How 
sweet  it  is  to  see  one  of  my  own  family  again  !  How 
good  you  are,  to  let  me  come  back  to  you  once  more !" 

"  How  naughty  you  were,  you  wilful  darling,  ever 
to  go  away  and  leave  me  !     How  could  you  do  so  ?" 

"Indeed,  I  don't  know.  I've  wondered  a  great 
many  times.  Give  me  another  kiss, — two, — and  hold 
me  tight !  Oh,  I  never  knew  what  a  darling  foster- 
mother  I  had,  nor  how  ungrateful  and  shameful  it  was 
for  me  to  say  I  was  all  alone  in  the  world,  till  I  had 
run  away  from  you  !" 

"  Come,  come  into  the  parlour,  and  let  me  take  off 
your  bonnet.     It's  all  damp  with  the  rain." 

Constance  hung  back.  "  Do  you  think  there  can 
be  any  of  my  own  dresses  up-stairs.  Aunt  Cora  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  dear ;  you  gave  them  all  away, 
did  you  not  ? — There,  that  will  do,  children  !  Run  up 
to  the  nursery.  Go  down  and  tell  the  cook  to  make 
some  muffins.  Sambo." — 

"  I'm  afraid  I  did.  I  shall  feel  so  odd  and  con- 
spicuous in  these  before  people  ;  and,  besides,  I  hate  to 
see  them  myself." 

"  What !     Why  ?" 

"  They  remind  me  of  my  wilfulness  and  folly. 
Aunt  Cora,  it  is  of  no  use  to  try  !  I  can  no  more  be  a 
Sister  than  I  can,  a  seraph  !" 

"  Why,  Constance  !     Why  ?" 

"  Oh,  because, — it  does  not  suit  me.     I'm  not  good 
enough.     I  mean  to  do  good  part  of  the  time ;  but  I 
want  to  do  something  else  besides,  and  draw,  and  play, 
15* 


346  UEEMAK. 

and  read  my  own  books,  and  think  my  own  thoughts, 
without  always  meditating.  I'll  be  the  children's  gov- 
erness, or  anything  you  please,  if  you'll  only  let  me 
stay  with  you.     Is  IJncle  Henry  in  the  parlour  ?" 

"  No,  dear.     Come  in." 

Herman  met  her  on  the  threshold.  He  thought  she 
w^ould  have  fallen.  "  Why  are  you  here  ?"  exclaimed 
she,  not  knowing  w^hat  she  said,  with  her  white  lips 
scarcely  stirring. 

The  low,  spontaneous  answer  broke  from  him  with 
equal  abruptness,  "  Because  I  love  you !" 

"  Children,  children,"  cried  Mrs.  Ronaldson,  ''  come 
away  from  Cousin  Constance  this  moment,  all  of  you ;  she 
is  tired.  No,  no,  Jenny;  off  the  sofa, — up  to  the  nursery. 
Mammy  Philly  has  the  nice  warm  water  all  ready ;  and 
we  will  have  such  a  frolic  !  Constance,  my  dear^ 
you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  excuse  me  for  half  an  hour,  I'm 
sure ; — my  children's  bath. — Skip,  Bobby,  mamma  will 
catch  him !"  Gathering  her  brood  together,  like  a  hen 
who  sees  a  hawk,  Mrs.  Ronaldson  swept,  with  them  be- 
fore her,  through  the  door  and  shut  it,  leaving  the  coast 
dear. 

Herman  and  Constance,  meantime,  saw  nothing 
and  heard  nothing  but  one  another.  They  stood  face 
to  face  alone  again,  for  the  first  time  since  that  misera- 
ble morning  in  Boston,  more  than  three  years  ago. 

Then  Constance  dropped  like  a  broken  idol  on  one 
knee  before  him,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
burst  into  a  tropical  deluge  of  tears  :  "  No,  no  !  Let 
me  stay  here !  It  is  the  proper  place  for  me !  Ah, 
Herman,  noble  Herman !  why  were  you  so  true  and  I 
so  unworthy  !  No,  don't  ask  me  to  rise  !  My  wicked 
pride  deserves  a  penance,  and  shall  have  it !  I  have 
knelt  to  other  men  since  I  spurned  you, — the  guide 


THE     lady's    SJIiilFT.  34:7 

and  coiinsellui"  that  Heaven  ordained  me, — and  asked 
for  their  forgiveness  for  hgliter  sins ;  and  novr,'' 

"  Miss  Aspen  wall ! — Constance  ! — oh,  dear  Con- 
stance !  Don't  let  me  see  jou  so  I  I  have  taken  yon  by 
surprise  !   Forgive  me !   Oh,  jou  shock,  you  grieve  me !" 

"  I  will  never  do  that  again,  at  any  rate,"  said  she ; 
and  trying  to  check  the  sobs,  which  shook  her  whole 
frame,  she  allowed  him  to  raise  her  and  lead  her  to  a 
sofa.  "  But  if  I  confess  myself  to  any  one,  I  am  sure 
it  is  fit  that  I  should  do  so  to  you,  oh,  my  patriot,  my 
hero,  my  true-love  ! — far  truer  to  me  than  myself ! — 
whom  I  wronged,  and  agonized,  and  repaid  with  my 
childish  scorn  and  anger  for  being  only  too  lofty  and 
heroic  for  a  spoiled  and  senseless  thing  like  me  to  un- 
derstand !     If  you  want  revenge,  you  shall  have  it." 

"  '  Eevenge  I'  on  you  ? — my  dearest !  my  own  heart ! 
I  don't.  I  want  nothing  but  your  afi*ection,  if  you  can 
only  give  me  that.     You  are  over-tired,  and," 

"  Yes,  I  am  over-tired,  and  deserve  to  be,  of  follow- 
ing out  my  own  wild  will ;  and  /  want  revenge,  if  you 
do  not,  on  my  mad  pride  and  passion,  which  have  made 
us  both  so  wretched  !" 

"  Both  !  AYere  you  '  so  wretched,'  too  ?  Oh,  Con- 
stance, Constance  !" 

"Was  I  not  ?  Did  you  think  me  so  heartless  as 
well  as  senseless!  Well  you  might,  indeed  !  But  to 
have  to  go  away  and  leave  you,  in  that  wilderness, — 
among  strangers, — perhaps  to  relapse  and  die  !  Oh, 
what  could  you  think  of  me  ?" 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  what  I  did  think  of  you  ? 
— that  you  were  an  incarnate  blessing,  sent  to  me  by 
Heaven  in  the  time  of  my  utmost  need  ;  that  your 
infinite  compassion  could  be  bounded  only  by  your  loy- 
alty to  duty ;  and  that  the  very  memory  of  your  pres- 


o4:S  HERMAN". 

ence,  when  you  were  gone,  was  as  an  amulet  to  preserve 
me  to  devote  myself  to  you  !  I  kept  myself  up  as  well 
as  I  could  with  that,  and  with  the  hope, — the  fixed  de- 
termination,— to  see  you  soon  again,  and  fnaJce  you  mine 
if  it  was  in  the  power  of  mortal  man  to  do  it ;  but  in 
spite  of  all,  when  you  were  gone,  Constance,  you  can- 
not imagine  how  I  felt ! — as  if  my  very  being  would 
be  crushed  inwards  with  its  own  emptiness  !" 

"  Can  I  not  ?  You  shall  hear.  I  loved  you,  Her- 
man ; — I  did  not  know  it,  but  I  did  love  you  at  the 
time, — in  Boston," 


"  Oh,  Constance  !  You  did  love  me  ?  And  now  ?" 
"  'No — less,"  faltered  she,  pausing  ;  and  then  she 
broke  forth  again,  "  I  liked  you  always,  and  Clara, 
and  Edward.  I  was  always  happier  and  better  with 
you,  than  with  anybody  else  I  ever  saw ;  my  mind  and 
heart  and  whole  soul  felt  at  home  with  you,  I  could 
not  tell  why  ;  but,  indeed,  I  never  knew  how  I  loved 
you,  Herman,  till  after  that  day  when  you  stood  before 
me  so  pale,  and  brave,  and  strong,  showing  me  how 
much, — how  over-much, — you  loved  me,  and  yet  how 
you  could  do  without  my  love.  I  was  ill  soon  after ; 
and  even  when  I  tried, — and  it  was  long  before  I  did, 
— to  remember  all  that  passed  between  us,  I  could  not, 
with  any  clearness;  but  that  look  of  yours, — that  fond, 
firm  agony, — I  could  not  forget ;  and  I  could  not  help 
admiring  you  for  it,  even  when  I  thought  you  in  the 
wrong ;  but  when  I  found  that  I  had  been  a  fool  and, 
for  the  climax  of  my  disgrace,  the  fool  of  tyrants !" — ■ — 


"  My  Constance !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
can  not  only  feel  for  me,  but  feel  with  me,  now  ?  My 
God,  I  thank  thee  !" 

"  Herman,  indeed  I  can  !  You  may  well  wonder 
at  it.     It  needed  very  much  to  break  down  my  igno- 


THE    LADY  S    SHRIFT.  349 

ranee  and  arrogance;  but  the  ruffian,  who  struck 
Sumner  down  Weeding  on  the  Senate  floor,  struck  with 
the  same  stroke  the  scales  from  my  eyes,  as  I  believe 
he  must  have  done  from  those  of  hundreds  !  Then  I 
knew  my  pet  institution  by  its  fruits.  A  system,  which 
had  for  its  arguments  the  blows  of  a  bravo  and  for  its 
tongue,  a  bludgeon,  could  be  little  akin  to  my  cher- 
ished Patriotism  and  Liberty.  Chivalry  and  tlie 
South,  indeed !  As  I  read  the  news  on  a  stray  scrap 
of  newspaper,  in  which  a  child  had  brought  some  fruit 
to  one  of  the  Sisters,  I  thought  of  you.  '  So  Herman 
was  right !'  I  said.  I  blushed,  and  turned  literally 
sicfe  with  shame,  as  if  I  had  seen  instead  a  published 
account  of  my  treatment  of  you ;  so  that  the  Sister 
Superior  saw,  took  the  scrap  from  me,  looked  it  over, 
and  asked  me  whether  either  of  the  parties  was  a  rela- 
tion or  friend  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  Constance,  you  could  think  of  me,  and  yet 
become  a  Sister  of  Charity  ?" 

"  I  was  one  already  to  all  intents  and  purposes. 
I  had  entered  upon  my  noviciate,  and  taken  a  private 
vow ;  and  I  was  glad  then  that  I  had  dropped  out  of 
life,  and  left  my  name  and  all  behind.  '  What  can  he 
think  of  me  now  V  I  said  to  myself.  '  Nothing,  but 
that  very  likely  I  am  one  of  the  ladies,  who  are  at 
this  very  moment  getting  up  subscriptions,  to  buy  new 
clubs  fur  that — representative  of  the  South  ! — to  break 
on  the  grandest  heads  of  my  countrymen  ! — Herman's 
own  among  them,  perhaps.  I  am  disgraced,'  I  said, 
'  and  my  South  is  disgraced ;  and  the  sooner  I  am  out 
of  this  weary  wicked  world,  the  happier  for  me;'  and 
I  asked  leave  to  go  w^ith  Sister  Mary  ;  because  we  heard 
that  the  cholera  was  in  Kansas,  and  I  thought  that  I 
should  like  to  die  in  the  service  of  the  sick  Free-State 


350  IlEliMAN. 

people  there.  It  seemed  to  be  the  only  reparation 
to  your  cause,  that  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  make ; 
and,  —  I  did  not  in  the  least  suppose  that  you 
would  ever  care  to  hear  of  me  again  ;  but  I 
thought,  that  if  you  should^  I  should  like  to  have  you 
hear  that," 

"  My  own  love  !  How  could  I  have  borne  to  hear 
it  ?  How  could  you  suppose,  that  I  could  ever  for  a 
moment  forget  you  ?  How  could  you  ever  consent,  for 
a  year  or  a  month,  to  put  so  fearful  a  barrier  between 
yourself  and  me  %  Could  you  not  have  served  God 
among  jour  friends  and  kindred,  in  some  happier 
^'■ay  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  did  iiot  care  so  much  as  I  ought 
about  serving  God,"  murmured  Constance,  her  pink 
cheeks  blushing  between  her  delicate  fingers,  like  roses 
through  snowy  icicles.  "  You  must  not  think  me  as 
good  as  you  are,  Herman;  or  you  will  despise  me  for  a 
cheat  when  you  find  me  out.  You  shall  hear  the 
whole  story,  as  you  have  a  right  to  do,  as  fast  as  I  can 
summon  up  resolution  to  confess  how  poor  a  part  I 
have  played.  But,  first,  you  must  hear  how  hopeless 
and  dreary  I  was  ;  for  that  is  my  only  excuse.  As  for 
happiness,  I  might  have  found  it  here,  perhaps, — I 
might  have  done  so,  certainly,  if  I  had  been  less 
spoiled,  wayward,  and  exacting, — if  I  had  not  loved, 
and  known  what  it  was  to  be  loved  again.  As  it  was, 
I  was  spoiled,  wayward,  exacting,  and, — yes,  I  will 
own  it ! — it  is  due  to  you, — broken-hearted  !" 

"  My  own  precious  Constance  !  You  broken- 
hearted, too ! — and  I  not  here  to  comfort  you.  If  I 
could  but  have  guessed  ! — When  one  word  would  have 
brought  me  so  enraptured  to  your  side !" 

"But  that  word,"  stammered  she,  "  was  one  that  I 


thp:   lady's   shrtft.  351 

could  not  say.  It  was  mine  to  chide  you  from  me ; — 
not  mine  to  bid  you  back  again.  No  matter  ;  perhaps 
I  would  not  have  done  it,  if  I  could.  Xo;  I  am 
pretty  sure  I  should  not.  I  was  possessed  bv  the  evil 
one  ;  (for  people  may  be,  even  in  our  times,  Herman. 
I  believe  in  that  doctrine  firmly,  shudderingly.  God 
grant  he  may  be  cast  out  now  !"  She  crossed  herself 
and  shivered  ;)  "  and  even  if  you  had  thrown  yourself 
at  my  feet  in  those  days,  I  believe  I  might  have 
spumed  you  again, — who  knows  ? — though,  in  order  to 
do  it,  I  trampled  on  my  own  soul.  I  said  to  myself, 
'  He  has  been  tried  in  the  balance  and  found  wanting; 
let  him  go  !  I  am  happy  enough  without  him  ;  or,  at 
any  rate,  I  am  going  to  be.  I  must  occupy  my  mind, 
and  forget  the  whole  matter.'  Then  the  question 
arose.  How  occupy  my  mind  ? 

"  There  appeared  to  be  nothing  for  me  to  do,  but  to 
go  out  a  good  deal ;  and  accordingly  I  did  that.  I  re- 
ceived a  great  deal  of  what  is  called  attention ;  and 
ladies  told  me,  that  gentlemen  had  said  that  I  was  very 
handsome.  What  comfort  was  there  in  that  ?  So 
were  many  very  unhappy  or  even  very  despicable  per- 
sons ;  so  was  Eleanor,— I  must  learn  not  to  mention 
names  when  I  am  going  to  be  spiteful,"  said  she,  inter- 
rupting herself  with  a  sobbing  laugh, — "  who  had  not, 
I  beheved,  an  idea  in  her  head,  except  that  she  was 
the  greatest  beauty  on  this  continent,  or  a  feeling  in 
her  heart  except  a  longing  to  have  the  fact  frankly  and 
explicitly  stated  to  her  on  every  occasion.  Yery  soon 
I  began  to  grow  tired,  and  to  say  to  myself,  '  I  have 
had  enough  of  this.  What  next  ?'  I  could  not  see  any 
next,  or  at  least  any  that  I  found  any  comfort  in  con 
templating.  Oh,  Herman,  it  is  a  dreary  tiling  to 
stand,  a  girl  of  nineteen,  on  the  very  threshold  of  life, 


352  TIKRMAN. 

and  see  before  you  nothing  but  death  to  look  for- 
ward to ! 

"Even  what  I  had  in  possession,  I  could  not  keep. 
The  young  men  were  proud  of  walking  and  dancing 
witli  me,  just  as  they  were  of  driving  a  fine  horse,  and 
discussed  me,  I  suspected,  much  as  if  I  had  been  one. 
'  She  is  a  glorious  creature !'  I  was  told  that  they  said 
and  swore ;  but  I  knew  that  in  five  years'  time  they 
would  probably  say  it  with  less  emphasis,  and  in  ten 
change  it  into  '  She  was  a  glorious  creature,'  or  forget 
it  altogether.  One  always  wants  a  prospect  of  some- 
thing, some  gain,  some  growth, — some  permanence,  at 
least ;  and  I  saw  no  prospect  of  any  in  that  direction, 
even  if  it  had  been  worth  having,  which  I  doubted. 

"  In  hopes  of  a  hint,  I  looked  about  me  to  see  what 
other  old  maids  were  doing.  Some  of  them  were  dressy 
and  chatty,  and  seemed  to  be  contented  and  satisfied ; 
but  it  was  with  much  the  same  things  that  the  young 
maids  were  doing ;  and  of  those  things  I  was  weary 
already,  and  expected  to  be  still  more  so  before  ten 
years  more  were  gone.  Then  there  were  others,  old 
maids  par  excellence,  whose  chief  function  in  life  ap- 
peared to  be,  to  be  dowdy,  useful  in  certain  dry  ways, 
and  '  content  with  their  sphere ;'  but  their  sphere,  so 
far  as  I  could  see,  was  nothing  but  an  exceedingly  flat 
roxmd  of  duties,  that  nobody  else  chose  to  do ;"  and 
again  Constance  laughed  with  that  sobbing  laugh,  half- 
tearful,  half-mirthful,  like  a  lost  child,  that  has  been 
Bought  and  found  by  a  kind  older  brother,  and  is  telling 
him  about  its  wanderings. 

"  Altogether  I  did  not  like  the  looks  of  the  future 
at  all,  and  tried  to  throw  myself  into  the  present  again, 
as  fast  as  I  could.  But  I  was  worn  out  with  mere  ball- 
room prate,  and  sometimes  wished  to  talk  of  things 


THE    lady's  shrift.  353 

more  interesting  than  mj  neighbours'  flirtations, 
clothes,  and  snppers.  Some  people  stared  and  an- 
swered at  cross-purposes ;  and  others  assured  each 
other  solemnly  that  I  was  very  intellectual.  '  What 
of  that?'  I  said  to  myself,  'What  good  does  an  intel- 
lect do  you,  unless  you  know  what  to  do  with  it  ? 
What  comfort  was  Samson's  long  hair  to  him,  when 
he  ground  in  the  mill  V  '  Why  don't  you  write  a 
book  ?'  they  said ;  but  I  never  like  to  write  often  or 
long;  and,  by  that  time,  through  idleness  and  dissipa- 
tion, I  had  lost  the  control  of  my  own  mind,  if  I  ever 
had  any,  and  did  not  know  how  to  set  myself  to  work 
or  to  keep  to  anything  steadily  ;  and  then, — I  tvill 
humble  myself  to  tell  you  this,  Herman,  to  give  you 
some  satisfaction  for  the  pain  which  I  inflicted  on  you, 
too,  by  my  arrogance  I — in  my  inaction  and  vacuity 
my  inward  griefs  had  completely,  and  in  spite  of  me, 
got  the  upper  hand.  My  heart  was  growing  so  full  of 
the  tears  which  I  was  too  proud  to  shed,  that  I  feared 
that  if  I  did  write,  they  would  burst  through  my  pen, 
and  trickle  over  all  my  pages,  and  every  one  would 
know  the  sorrowful  secret,  which  I  was  so  anxious  to 
keep  from  every  one. 

"  I  took  a  diso^ust  to  societv  and  tried  music  next, 
to  make  the  time  pass  and  keep  me  from  thinking ; 
but  it  did  not  keep  me  from  feeling.  I  often  played 
seven  or  eight  hours  a  day,  and  left  oif  only  because 
my  heavy  fingers  flagged  on  the  keys  ;  but  then  I  often 
cried.  Herman,  I  do  not  see  how  music  can  ever  do 
much  for  worldly  and  selfishly  unhappy  people; because 
it  awakens  spiritual  longings,  w^hich  only  heavenly  and 
holy  affections  can  fill. 

"  At  last,  I  believe  that  I  must  have  become  really 
morbid  ;  for   I   spent  half  my  time  sitting  with   my 


354  HERMAN. 

hands  folded  at  tin*  window,  gazing  into  the  street,  and 
speculating  on  tlie  faces  of  the  women  passing  by. 
I  did  not  care  particularly  to  study  those  of  the  girls ; 
for  I  knew  that  animal  spirits,  hope,  and  thoughtless- 
ness, were  enough  for  most  of  them;  but  I  pored 
eagerly  and  as  long  as  I  could,  through  the  blinds,  over 
the  countenances  of  the  middle-aged  and  the  old,  to 
read  their  fortunes  in  them.  When  I  saw  one  go  by 
with  a  proud,  glad  look,  I  said,  confidently,  '  She  has  a 
kind  husband,  or  a  fond,  true  lover.  She  steps  quickly. 
She  knows  that  the  time  seems  long  to  him,  while  she 
is  out  of  his  sight.  Perhaps  he  is  sitting  in  some  win- 
dow, and  looking  out  for  her,  a 5, — not  as, — I  am  now\ 
Perhaps  he  is  waiting  for  her  at  the  nearest  corner. 
Life  is  short.  Why  should  they  waste  a  moment  of  it, 
needlessly  apart?'  When  one  followed  with  a  con- 
tented, cheerful,  domestic  look,  I  said,  '  She  has  a 
cheery,  kindly  home  to  go  to,  with  plenty  of  sociable 
brothers  and  sisters  in  it,  if  she  has  no  more.'  When 
another  came,  somewlmt  pale  and  worn,  but  with  a 
sweet,  calm,  and  earnest  expression,  '  She  may  have 
had  her  trials  ;  but,  if  so,  she  must  have  had  somebody 
to  support  and  strengthen  her  under  them, — good  old 
parents,  very  likely,  who,  having  passed  through  the 
sorrows  of  life  before  her,  know  how  to  feel  for  her, 
soothe,  encourage,  and  guide  her,  while  she  in  return 
takes  heart  and  keeps  her  spirits  up,  that  she  may  the 
better  cheer  and  cherish  their  old  age.'  But  when  I 
saw  a  W'Oman  pass,  with  a  haggard,  withered,  drawn, 
defiant  face,  I  said,  '  She  is  alone  in  the  world  ; — an 
orphan,  with  no  brother  or  sister  ;—  and  her  lover  is 
worse  than  dead.  She  has  no  hopes,  and  bitter  mem- 
ories from  which  she  knows  no  refuge.  She  hates  life, 
and  herself,  and  all  the  w-orld.      She   is  embittered, 


THE  lady's  shrift.  355 

soured,  cankered,  as  I  am  going  to  be, — as  I  am  now.' 
At  length,  one  day,  I  saw  two  Sisters  of  Charity, — one 
of  them  majestic,  and,  though  old,  still  beautiful, — both 
looking  happy.  That  was  a  reproach  to  me;  for  I  sup- 
posed that  they  had  no  domestic  ties,  nor  anything  but 
the  unselfish  service  of  God  and  man  to  make  them 
more  contented  than  myself;  and  I  arose,  and  left  my 
window." 

"  But,  my  own  dearest,  were  you  so  utterly  alone  ? 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it.  Had  you  no  friend  ? 
You  were  here,  were  you  not  ?  Surely,  surely,  Mrs. 
Honaldson  must  have  been  kind  to  you  ?" 

"'Kind!'  Indeed  she  was!  —  much  more  than 
that !  Incredibly  kind,  it  seemed  to  me,  when  I  looked 
back,  after  toil,  hardship,  and  real  homelessness,  had 
begun  to  bring  me  to  my  senses.  She  was  as  affection- 
ate and  tender  towards  me  as  I  would  let  her  be ;  but 
at  the  time  I  fear  that  I  really  took  it  only  as  a  matter 
of  course,"  said  Constance,  blushing  like  a  fair  cloud  at 
sunset.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  I  did  use  to  take  it  as  a 
matter  of  course,  that  all  around  me  should  be  de\'oted 
to  my  worship  and  service.  When  they  were  so,  I  fear 
that  I  merely  did  not  notice  it.  When  they  were  not, 
I  felt  it  as  an  outrage.  I  knew  nothing  of  life  then.  All 
my  notions  of  it  were  drawn  from  fiction  and  my  own 
selfish  fancy.  I  was  the  prima  donna  of  my  opera, 
and  did  not  see  that  other  people  were  made  for  any 
other  purpose  than  to  play  accompaniments  or  sing 
seconds  to  me.  I  bewailed  my  loneliness ;  but  I  be- 
lieve it  was  more  than  half  my  own  fault ;  for  I  did 
like  to  keep  everybody  at  bay  with  my  haughtiness. 
A  brother,  sister,  father,  or  mother,  might  be  made  a 
picturesque  accessory  to  the  grand  central  figure  of  a 
heroine.     A  kind,  indulgent,  attentive  aunt,  was  quite 


356  HERMAN. 

too  tame  and  homely  a  character  to  be  held  under  con- 
sideration for  a  moment ;  and," — Constance's  long 
curled  eje-lashes  drooped  till  they  over-hung  her 
blushes, — "  I  know  that  I  did  not  esteem  or  appreciate 
Aunt  Cora  at  all  as  I  ought.  I  despised  her;  because 
she  had  less  taste  and  time  for  idle  accomplishments 
and  day-dreams  than  I ;  and  I  thought  her  common- 
place ;  because  she  was  so  absorbed  in  her  little  house- 
hold and  social  cares, — in  trifles,  I  thought  then, — in 
her  duty,  and  promoting  the  welfare  and  happiness  of 
others,  I  see  now.  Oh,  it  seems  all  so  long  ago, — as 
if  I  was  talking  of  what  I  was  in  some  preexistent 
state,  or  of  some  other  person  ; — and  indeed  I  must 
have  changed  very  much,  or  I  could  never  have  hum- 
bled myself  to  acknowledge  such  ingratitude  and  folly ! 
Don't  you  think  so  ?"  asked  she,  with  the  eager,  plead- 
ing look  of  a  contrite,  docile  infant,  who,  after  a  repented 
fit  of  naughtiness,  begs  to  know,  "  Am  I  good  now  ?" 

"  I  do,"  he  returned,  with  a  fond  and  not  very 
credulous  smile,  "  if  you  ever  were  such  a  person  as 
you  describe.  I  think,  further,  that  you  have  learned 
to  turn  the  satire,  with  which  you  used  to  make  me 
laugh  at  others,  against  yourself  I  could  rather  weep 
at  it  now.     Spare  her  whom  I  love  best." 

"  Truth  is  the  truest  satire  for  some  persons,"  said 
Constance,  vengefuUy,  but  looking  well  pleased,  not- 
withstanding ;  ''  she  deserves  mercy  through  your 
intercession,  who  had  so  much  on  you.  You  shall 
hear  the  worst  of  her  before  you  give  yourself  to  her," — 

"  Excuse  me,"  cried  he,  playfully.  "  The  informa- 
tion comes  too  late.  She  has.  me  already  beyond  recall. 
In  pity,  don't  make  me  discontented  !  The  best  that  I 
can  do  is  to  make  the  best  of  my  bad  bargain." 

*'  We  have  talked  enough  of  so  unfortunate  a  sub- 
ject, at    any  rate,  for   once,"   said    Constance ;  "  and 


TUE    LADY  S    CJIIRIFT. 


35' 


there  is  Uncle  Henrj's  step  on  the  stairs  !  They  will 
make  us  go  to  tea  presently  ;  and  oh,  Herman,  I  have 
not  seen  jou  yet,  nor  heard  anything  about  you  I  Let 
me  have  one  look  now,  to  see  if  you  have  really  got 
your  v:ell  face  back  again,  before  I  run  up  stairs  to 
bathe  my  eyes. — Xo,  now  I  cannot.  You  must  not 
look  at  me.  Look  at  that  sweet  St.  Agnes  over  my 
head. — Yes,  you  do  not  look  as  you  did  in  Kansas. 
I  am  sure  you  are  well ;  but  you  do  not  look  as  you 
did  usually  in  Boston.  You  are  older, —  graver, 
stronger,  grander.  Strength  is  born  of  suffering ;  Her- 
man,— you  have  suffered,  too?" 

His  brows  knit  themselves  slightly  together  at  the 
memories  raised  by  the  question ;  but  they  relaxed, 
and  he  smiled, — such  a  smile  !  with  the  very  strong 
essence  and  elixir  of  mastered  pain  in  it, — as  he  said, 
"  Too  much  to  recall ! — enough  to  give  zest  to  an  hour 
like  this!" 

"  What  have  you  suffered,  Herman  ?"  Constance 
would  have  been  more  or  less  than  woman,  had  she 
not  felt  that  her  confession  demanded  one  in  return. 

"  JS^eed  I  say  ?  Unhappy  love,"  —  The  tears 
welled  up  again  in  her  deep,  pitying  eyes,  and  he 
Imrried  on  :  "  Slander,  insult,  numberless  hindrances 
in  striving  to  save  the  hberties  and  honor  of  our 
country," 

"  And  you  allowed  yourself,  for  a  moment,  to  regard 
things  like  those  ?"  cried  she.  "  But  that  could  have 
been  only  because  you  were  lonely, — because  I  forsook 
you  I  Herman,  it  is  so  glorious,  so  noble,  to  suffer  in 
a  great  cause !  Go  on  !  You  cannot,  you  shall  not 
be  overcome  !  The  blood  of  the  martyrs  was  the  seed 
of  the  church  I  The  heart's  blood  of  patriots  is  tlie 
seed  of  the  common  weal  I  If  fhe  whole  c-unr.try.  man 
\)'-  man.  were  to  turn  ar'«in?t  ^'.^w  \\y\w  tor  a  tiin^- 


358  HERMAN. 

would  no  more  heed  it  noiv,  [the  '  now '  meant,  '  with 
me  by  your  side,']  except  for  the  country's  sake !"  It 
was  a  true  girl's  speech,  more  enthusiastic  than  logical ; 
but,  as  it  rippled  through  her  beautiful  lips,  she  looked 
at  liim,  as  a  queen  might  upon  her  champion ;  and 
conviction  flashed  on  him  through  the  exquisite  dark 
eyes,  which,  with  a  kind  of  kindling  tenderness, 
beamed  inspiration  on  him  through  their  modest 
lashes.  He  cast  down  his  own,  abashed  in  his  turn 
before  that  blaze  of  tender  and  regal  beauty,  and  an- 
swered, with  docility  like  her  own,  "  I  believe  that  I 
could  not." 

SympathizingMrs.Ronaldson,whohad  scarcely  waited 
to  superintend  the  first  stage  of  her  infants'  immersion, 
before  she  returned  to  keep  watch  in  the  hall  and 
guard  against  any  untimely  intrusion,  was  now  forced 
to  tap  at  the  door.  Her  husband  wanted  to  see  Con- 
stance, and — wanted  his  tea.  She  found  her  niece 
smiling,  composed,  and  radiant  with  gentle  happiness. 
All  was  plainly  as  it  should  be.  Herman  seized  her  hand 
with  a  grasp,  which  said,  in  a  "  natural  language"  un- 
derstood all  the  world  over,  "Congratulate  me."  Con- 
stance slipped  her  arm  within  hers,  and  whispered,  as 
they  crossed  the  hall  together,  "  Dear,  dear,  sly  Aunt 
Cora.  You  thought  it  would  refresh  me  to  walk  into 
the  parlour,  did  you  ?  So  you  are  a  match-maker,  no 
better  than  the  other  matrons,  after  all." 

Herman  spent  half  the  following  night  in  writing 
to  Clara ;  Constance,  in  reviewing  the  events  of  the 
day.  Herman  had  done  wisely  in  checking  the  first 
out-pourings  of  her  long-pent  feelings.  He  did  so, 
partly  because  he  could  never  bear  to  see  any  woman 
cry, — that  one  particularly, — bat  also  because  he 
understood  her   well    enough   to   suspect   that,    how- 


TUE  lady's  suklft.  359 

ever  many  tears  of  repentant  tenderness  she  might 
shed,  in  the  first  overwliehning  transports  of  their 
reunion,  she  would  shed  more  of  mortification  and 
remorse  afterwards  by  herself,  if  she  thought  that  she 
had  shed  one  too  many  before  him,  or  been  by  a  hair's 
breadth  too  unreserved  and  demonstrative.  Besides, 
balm  as  each  word  of  her  passionate  contrition  was  to 
the  wounds  which  her  pride  and  anger  had  inflicted 
upon  him,  he  thought  it  unfair  to  take  advantage  of 
the  emotion  into  which  he  had  surprised  her,  to  win 
one  Irom  her.  He  did  not  consider,  that  if  in  a  calmer 
moment  she  had  remembered  that  he  had  drawn  her 
on  to  say  too  much,  her  enthusiasm  might  have  re- 
acted, and  become  aversion.  This  was  true,  nutwith- 
standing.  He  had  his  reward  for  his  forbearance.  In 
her  vigils  it  came  up  in  review. 

"  What  could  he  have  thought  of  me  ^"  thought  she, 
"  kneeling,  and  sobbing,  and  almost  throwing  myself 
at  his  feet,  as  if  to  take  or  cast  off  at  his  pleasure ! 
What  a  tragedy-queen  I  behaved  like!  Clara  never 
does  so.  When  can  I  learn  to  be  calm  and  rational,  and 
like  other  people  ?  I  hope  he  will  recollect  how  com- 
pletely I  was  taken  of£  my  guard.  But  he  does ;  he  did  at 
the  time.  He  said,  in  those  mellow,  soothing  tones  of 
his,  so  full  of  protection  and  manly  tenderness,  which  are 
the  sweetest  in  his  voice, — of  all  the  tones  of  all  the 
voices  that  I  ever  heard, — just  so,  '  I  have  taken  you 
by  surprise  !  you  are  tired  !'  Xo,  not  so  !  I  cannot 
say  it  as  he  did  ;  nobody  else  could.  And  he  tried  to 
stop  me  again  and  again,  as  well  as  he  could  without 
appearing  to  see  that  I  was  making  a  fool  of  myself. 
He  could  not  enjoy  his  triumph ;  because  it  was  my 
humiliation.  How  generous  ! — how  mortitying !  Well, 
it  was  bad  enough,  to  h-  sure;  but  it  might  have  been 


360  HEEMAN. 

worse.  I  kept  some  things  to  myself,  I  thank  the 
saints !  I  did  not  say  that  I  could  not  work,  for  want 
of  him  to  hold  my  worsteds  for  me  to  wind,  nor  sing, 
because  the  notes  of  his  voice  seemed  to  be  always 
hovering  around  mine,  and  mine  was  so  hollow  and 
meagre  without  his,  nor  read,  for  wondering  what  he 
would  say  of  each  new  book.  At  least,  when  I  told 
him  about  my  sitting  at  that  window,  I  did  not  men- 
tion how  I  used  sometimes  to  watch  by  the  hour,  to  see 
if,  by  some  hopeless  chance,  I  might  not  see  him  pass 
by ;  and  oh,  above  all,  I  did  not  say  how  I  used  to 
watch  for  my  chance  to  snatch  at  the  newspapers  un- 
observed, nor  how  they  would  always  flutter  in  my 
hand  while  I  looked  for  his  name,  first  among  the  mar- 
riages, and  then  among  the  deaths.  '  In  Boston,  — th 
instant,  Herman  Arden,  aged  21 — 22 — 23.  Papers  at 
a  distance  will  please  to  copy.'  Nor  how  I  would  then 
give  a  long  sigh,  and  take  breath  again  for  the  next 
twelve  hours,  but  say  to  myself,  '  Yery  likely  he  is  at 
the  altar  or  in  the  hearse  at  this  moment ;  but  it  will 
take  another  day  for  the  news  to  come.' 

"  Horrid,  horrid  days !  horrid  dream  !  It  is  over 
now  ;  so  much  I  have  to  be  glad  of,  and  most  be ;  and 
now,  if  he  is  ill,  no  one  can  take  me  away  from  him. 
I  shall  at  least  be  in  the  same  town,  and  able  to  hear 
how  he  is  ;  and, — if — I  am  not  worthy  of  him, — he 
shall  teach  me  to  be ;-  -so  honorable  ! — so  trustworthy  ! 

— so  loyal ! — so  " very  sleepy  was  Miss  Aspenwall, 

that  at  this  juncture  a  very  heavy  slumber  prevented 
her  from  completing  the  list  of  her  true-love's  attri- 
butes; and  she  never  succeeded  in  duin^  so  tc  her 
satisfaction. 


THE    LADY  S    SHKIFT.  861 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE     LADY'S  SHRIFT 

(concluded.) 

"That  there  should  be  no  other  carrier^  [than  in  marriage]  possi- 
ble for  the  great  majority  of  women,  except  in  the  humbler  departments 
of  life,  is  one  of  those  social  injuBtices  which  call  loudest  for  ivmedy." 

John  Stuart  Mill. 

"These  views  are  everyday  driving  distinguished,  and  gilled,  and 
enthusiastic  women,  into  the  pale  of  that  church,  which  stretches  out 
its  arms,  and  says,  '  Come  untf»  me  je  who  are  troubled,  ye  who  are 
idle,  and  I  will  give  you  rest  and  work;  and,  wi^h  tliese,  sympathy 
and  reverence,  the  religious  sanction,  direction,  and  control.'  Can 
we  find  nothing  of  all  this  for  our  women  ?  Why  should  they  thus  go 
out  from  among  us?"  Mrs.  Jameson. 

Const AXCE  was  awakened  the  next  morning  bv  tliat 
delicious  sensation,  which  probably  comes  to  most  of 
us  twice  or  thrice  in  a  life-time,  of  a  heart-full  of  hap- 
piness, waiting  only  for  the  drowsy  memory  to  rouse 
itself,  walk  iu.  reyiew  its  treasures,  and  take  possession. 
The  furniture  of  the  luxurious  chamber  ar<nind  her  told 
her  at  once  of  her  escape  from  hardship  and  banish- 
ment;  and  then  instantly  rushed  in,  the  thought  of 
Herman.  Clasping  her  hands  with  an  exclamation 
of  thankfulness,  she  sprang  from  her  bed,  impatient  to 
begin  the  day. 

She  looked  for  her  clothes.  On  a  chair  beside  her, 
hung  the  dreary  black  robe  and  the  cross  and  rosary. 
She  turned  from  them  with  a  shudder.  Then,  witli 
averted  eyes,  she  put  out  her  hand  for  the  cross, 
pressed  it  to  her  lips  with  reverent  and  remorseful  ten- 
16 


362  HERMAN. 

derness,  and  liung  it  about  her  neck.  "  From  this,  at 
least,  the  anchor  of  my  hope,"  murmured  she,  "I  will 
never  be  parted.  It  shall  lie  on  my  heart  till  I  lie  in 
my  coffin. — God  grant,  that  that  may  not  be  for  many, 
many  years  !  It  is  so  heautiful  to  live ! — And  if  I  wear 
it  henceforth,  not  without,  but  within,  I  must  also 
endeavour  to  bear  it  on  my  soul  as  well  as  on  my  body. 
But  that  robe,  that  black  uniform  of  celibacy  and  or- 
phanage,— the  pall  of  all  his  happiness  and  mine  when 
last  we  met,  and  met  only  to  part, — how  can  I  ever 
put  it  on  again  !  It  seems  ill-omened  !  Ah  !  I  could 
not  have  been  worthy  to  wear  it ;  or  it  would  not  look 
so  grim  to  me !" 

Her  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  a  tap  at  the  door. 
Annette,  Mrs.  Konaldson's  pretty,  jaunty  quadroon 
maid,  came  in,  smiling  and  sparkling  with  delight  cha- 
racteristic of  her  race,  half  at  Constance's  return,  and 
half  at  the  tinery  with  which  her  handsome  arms  were 
filled  to  overflowing, — embroidered  white  petticoats, 
the  freshest  and  finest  sleeves  and  neckerchiefs  of 
wrought  muslin,  little  dainty  caps  and  coifs,  and  three 
of  the  most  youthful  and  tasteful  morning-gowns,  from 
Mrs.  Ronaldson's  wardrobe.  "  Mistis,  she  send  me 
when  Mistis  go  to  mass.  Mistis  she  say,  '  Annette, 
you  go  now,  in  good  season  ;  'cause,  if  don't  tit,  you  got 
to  alter  'fore  breakfast  ready,  mind  !'  " 

One  of  the  dresses  did  tit.  Mrs.  Ronaldson  was  tall 
and  well-formed ;  and  it  had  been  made  when,  having 
just  recovered  from  an  illness,  she  was  slenderer  than 
usual.  It  happened  to  be  of  the  very  prettiest  shade 
of  lavender,  the  very  hue  to  set  ofi*  to  the  best  advan 
tage  Constance's  clear  cool  tints,  her  black  curls, 
pink  cheeks,  and  white,  polished  neck  and  forehead. 
"  Ky !  look  more  better  on  young  mistis,  dan  does  on 


THE  lady's  shkitt.  3^3 

Mistis  she-sef,  now,"  declared  Annette ;  and  so  it  did. 
Constance  always  became  her  dress,  as  much  as  her 
dress  did  her.  Pretty  things  looked  prettier  on  her, 
and  plain  things  pretty ;  and  if  she  wore  a  pair  of 
gloves  a  single  evening,  and  threw  them  by,  one  might 
know  them  afterwards  by  the  trick  of  gracefulness 
which  her  dainty  hands  had  left  in  them. 

Annette  would  have  dressed  her  hair;  but  she  had 
not,  just  now,  much  to  dress.  A  border  of  jetty  curls, 
scarcely  longer  than  Herman's  own,  as  a  settins^  to  her 
fine  brow  and  blue-veined  temples,  were  all  that  was  to 
be  had ;  and  she  saw  Annette  in  the  glass,  over  her 
shoulder,  comparing  with  them  her  own  frizzly  tresses 
with  an  expression  of  sly  triumph.  She  sent  Annette 
away.  "  How  provoking !"  said  she  to  herself  "What 
will  Herman  think  ?  It  looks  so  masculine,  and  strong- 
minded^  and  horrid !  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
pull  it,  to  make  it  grow  quicker!  And,  otherwise,  I 
don't  look  so  badly,  for  an  ex-nun  at  the  venerable  age 
of  two-and-twenty,"  said  Constance,  as  she  gave  her- 
self a  gradual  twirl  before  the  Psyche.  "  How  per- 
fectly lovely  I  look  ! — my  dress,  I  mean  ! — How  sweet 
and  considerate  of  Aunt  Cora!  How  I  did  despise 
such  trappings  once,  when  I  had  them;  but  being  dis- 
contented with  them,  and  contented  without,  I  find  are 
two  difi^erent  things.  I  should  not  care  for  them  now, 
however,  if  it  were  not  for  Herman.  Oh,  this  head ! 
how  shall  I  hide  it  ?  I  could  almost  run  it  into  the 
sand,  like  an  ostrich.  I've  a  great  mind  to  put  on  my 
cornichon  again.  Ko,  it  would  look  too  absurd  with 
all  these  embroideries,  and  make  me  and  everybody 
remember  what  I  want  to  forget,  and  have  forgotten. 
This  little  muslin  Mary  Queen-of-Scots,  now,  tvltb  the 
rose-colored  ribbons?     The  very  thing  !" 


HERMAN. 


So  Herman  thought,  when  he  saw  her  an  hour  after. 
She  had  been  captivating  enough  for  him  in  the  sombre 
costume,  which  heightened  by  contrast  the  charms  of 
her  youth  and  beauty  ;  but  it  seemed  to  him,  as  well  as 
to  her,  like  a  ghostly  barrier  between  them,  and  he  was 
delightfully  surprised  to  have  it  banished,  and  told  her 
so,  as  they  seated  themselves  again  in  the  little  parlour, 
to  chat  away  the  morning  at  their  leisure. 

"  Borrowed  plumes,"  answered  she.  "  This  dress  is 
Aunt  Cora's ;  but  she  has  gone  out  to  sho^  for  me 
now^  She  makes  everything  easy  and  pleasant  to  me. 
Whfjn  I  entered  upon  my  noviciate,  I  gave  her  my 
jewels ;  and  she  now  insists  upon  giving  back  to  me, — 
not.  them ;  for  I  do  not  want  them ;  and  it  would  not 
suit  my  present  circumstances,  nor  feelings  either, 
exactly,  to  wear  them, — but  a  large  equivalent  in  ready 
money.  I  gave  everything  else  to  the  church,  Herman. 
I  have  nothing  left  for  you  but  myself." 

"  JSTothing  but  an  infinite  treasure  ?  That  will  satis- 
fy me  tolerably  for  the  present.  I  have  between  two 
and  three  thousand  dollars  a  year,  very  much  at  your 
service ;  and  if  you  need  more,  I  flatter  myself  that  I 
•iliall  be  able  to  earn  it.  It  does  not  cost  me  much  to 
teejp  myself" 

"I  have  learned,  too,  not  a  little  to  my  surprise, 
how  little  I  can  live  upon.  A  good  lesson,  is  it  not? — 
aot  the  only  one,  I  hope,  which  I  have  learned  in  my 
new  grave  school ;  but  I  have  not  explained  to  you 
f  et  how  I  came  to  enter  into  it.  I  told  you  that  I  saw 
the  two  sisters  go  by? " 

"Yes." 

"I  did  not  know  them  then.  Afterwards  I  did. 
One  was  Sister  Mary  Peter,  your  nurse ;  you  under- 
stand her  pretty  thoroughly,  I  fancy, — a  good,  useful 


3<)5 

woman,  though  quaint  and  odd.  The  other  was  the 
very  heau  ideal  of  a  saint,  Sister  Corona  Eartlioloniew 
of  Consolation.  Wonderful  as  the  beauty  of  her  form 
and  face  were  at  her  age,  they  were  nothing  to  that  of 
her  character  and  hfe.  She  always  reminded  me  of 
those  lines  of  Scott,  which  you  read  to  Clara  and  me 
once, — don't  you  remember?  we  were  sitting  in  the 

library : — 

'Where,  darling  of  each  heart  and  eye, 
From  all  the  youth  of  Sicily, 
St.  Rosalie  retired  to  God.' 

She  was  young,  rich,  beautiful,  and  beloved;  and 
her  first  sorrow,  she  told  me,  was  parting  from  her 
family;  but,  from  the  earliest  times  that  she  could 
recollect,  she  used  to  steal  away  from  her  companions 
to  kneel  and  pray,  and  loved  God  best,  and  wished  to 
give  herself  wholly  to  Him.  Her  parents  almost  wor- 
shipped her;  but  they  were  devout  persons,  too,  and 
required  of  her  only,  that  she  should  wait  until  she  was 
strong  enough  for  her  duties,  and  old  enough  to  know 
her  own  mind.  She  entered  upon  her  noviciate  at 
twenty-one ;  and  they  gave  her  up  with  blessings  and 
thanksgivings,  that  she  had  been  able  to  make  so  safe 
and  happy  a  choice,  in  the  midst  of  all  their  grief  at 
the  separation. 

"  The  evening  of  the  day  that  I  saw  them.  Bishop 
Devereux  called.  Oh,  you  must  know  him,  Herman  ! 
I  had  seen  him  repeatedly  before :  but  I  was  hardly 
acquainted  with  him  till  then.  Little  Jenny  happened 
to  prattle  something  abont  the  beauty  of  one  of  her 
schoolmates.  She  wished  she  was  as  handsome.  The 
Bishop  is  always  kind  to  children.  He  took  her  up, 
gave  her  a  ride  on  his  knee,  asked  her  why  she  wished 
so,  and  told  her  that,  if  she  wished  for  a  beautiful 
spirit,  that  was  very  well  worth  having ;  because  slie 


366  h?:rman. 

con  Id  keep  it  forev^er,  and  ten  thousand  years  hence  it 
would  still  be  beautiful ;  but,  if  she  wanted  only  a 
beautiful  face,  he  thought  slie  might  do  as  well  with- 
out it ;  for  it  seldom  lasted  long,  and  was  often  gone 
almost  before  one  knew  one  had  it,  and  it  might 
leave  her  unhappy  at  the  loss  of  it.  He  did  not  look 
towards  me,  or  make  the  slightest  application  of  what 
he  said  to  me.  He  was  too  well-bred  for  that ;  though 
he  is  one  of  the  most  sincere  and  penetrating  persons  I 
ever  saw,  and  can  tell  you  home-truths  enough,  if  you 
ask  him  for  them.  Eut  his  words  seemed  to  wake  an 
echo  in  me ;  and,  before  I  knew  it,  out  came  some 
simple  little  speech  in  confirmation  of  them.  'Yes, 
indeed  !'  I  believe,  was  all  I  said.  He  smiled  good 
humoredly, — as  if  he  was  half-pleased,  half-surprised,  at 
my  earnestness, — and  mused  a  few  minutes. 

"Mammy  came  and  took  Jenny,  to  put  her  to  bed ; 
and  then  he  drew  his  chair  up  beside  mine,  and  devoted 
himself  to  my  entertainment  for  an  hour,  showing  him- 
self not  like  a  priest  then,  but  like  a  high-minded  gen- 
tleman, scholar,  philosopher,  and  man  of  the  world  in 
the  best  sense  of  the  term, — that  of  a  man  who  knows 
the  world,  not  by  being  led  blindfold  by  it,  but  by 
seeing  through  it.  He  is  a  man  of  both  worlds,  in 
short. — Though  he  never  forgot  the  gentleness  and 
courtesy  due  from  man  to  woman,  he  gave  out  his 
mind  as  freely  in  talking  with  me,  as  if  he  had  been 
conversing  with  an  equal  in  intellect  and  information ; 
and  that,  Herman,  is,  I  think,  the  rarest  compliment 
which  your  sex  ever  pays  to  mine.  [A  compliment 
too.  Miss  Constance,  which,  as  the  bishop  was  shrewd 
enough  to  know,  an  intellectual  girl  seldom  fails  to 
appreciate.]  But  he  did  not  tire  me  out,  as  some  men 
who  consider  themselves '  gifted  in  conversation '  would, 


THE  lady's  shrift.  367 

bv  hurling  huge  theories  at  my  head  one  after  another,  as 
fast  as  I  could  parry  them,  or  haranguing  solemnly  and 
endlessly  on  one  subject  in  a  drawing-room,  as  if  he 
was  in  a  lecture-room  ;  nor  did  he  keep  the  floor  to  him- 
self. On  the  contrary,  he  took  care,  I  could  see,  to 
make  me  bear  my  full  part.  He  listened  respectfully 
and  apparently  with  interest  to  me,  and  then  would 
either  clinch  my  ideas  with  one  pithy,  pointed  sentence 
of  his  own,  or  attack  them  playfully,  and  make  me 
defend  them  before  he  would  yield.  In  this  manner 
we  ran,  sometimes  a-tilt,  sometimes  abreast,  through  a 
long  conrse  of  literature,  sculpture,  painting,  and  music ; 
while  I  did  not  know  w^hich  to  admire  most,  his  wit, 
eloquence,  information,  breeding,  or  benevolence.  At 
last  we  came  upon  architectm*e,  where  he  had  to  have 
the  field  to  himself;  for  I  knew  nothing  of  it;  but  he 
begged  leave  to  bring  some  fine  photographs,  which  he 
had,  of  foreign  cathedrals,  for  me  to  look  over,  and 
gave  me  a  description  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  Miserere 
in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  which  was  a  perfect  poem.  I 
dreamed  of  them  all  night  I 

"  That  evening  had  been  an  oasis  in  the  dry  des- 
ert of  my  life.  When  it  was  over,  I  was  surprised 
to  find  how  cheered  and  interested  I  had  been, — carried 
out  of  myself,  or  rather  into  something  like  my  old  self. 
I  remember,  when  I  awoke  the  next  morning,  dull 
again,  and  hopeless  as  usual,  I  said  to  myself,  ]Xow  I 
know  exactly  how  those  old  saints  at  Jerusalem,  who 
^  came  out  of  their  graves  and  appeared  unto  many,' 
must  have  felt,  if  they  were  put  back  into  them.  The 
bishop  repeated  his  visit,  however,  the  very  next  week, 
and  brought  his  magnificent  photographs ;  and  Aunt 
Cora  and  I  drew  him  on,  by  our  interest  and  attention, 
to  give  us  quite  a  charming  lecture  upon  them,  full  of 


368  HERMAN. 

antiquarian  lore,  aud  of  that  enthusiastic  kind  of  rever- 
ence of  whicli  he  is  so  fulh 

"  After  that  he  was  here  a  good  deal.  He  had  been 
Aunt  Cora's  director  ever  since  she  was  twelve  years 
old,  and  was  therefore  quite  intimate  in  her  household. 
Either  she,  or  his  own  penetration,  must  have  given 
him  a  hint  that  all  was  not  quite  at  peace  within  me ; 
and  he  was  as  kind  and  attentive  to  me  as  a  father  to 
a  suffering  daughter. 

"  At  last,  she  gave  Jenny  a  children's  party,  and 
invited  three  or  four  of  the  grown-up  sisters  of  the 
smallest  children,  to  accompany  and  take  care  of  them. 
Jenny  wanted  a  fortune-teller ;  and  Aunt  Cora  gave 
Annette  live  dollars,  to  get  herself  up  a  costume  like 
that  of  the  Sybil  in  the  drawing-room.  You  have  no 
idea  how  well  she  did  it,  nor  how  picturesque  she 
looked.  We  gave  her  a  little  mother-of-pearl  and  gilt 
casket,  with  two  compartments  in  it,  one  containing 
little  scrolls  of  colored  paper  with  fortunes  written  on 
the  inside  for  the  boys,  and  the  other,  similar  ones  for 
the  girls.  As  she  could  not  read,  we  told  her  to  pre- 
tend that  she  could  not  speak,  and  merely  to  give  out 
the  papers  in  silence,  as  the  children  marched,  two  and 
two,  before  her  for  them ;  and  she  did  it,  very  deftly 
and  prettily.  Aunt  Cora  hid  her  in  the  recess  of  a 
window,  with  the  purple  curtains  let  down  straight 
before  her  to  the  floor ;  and  through  them,  I  suppose, 
she  availed  herself  of  the  privilege  of  peeping,  till  the 
clock  struck  eight ;  when  she  parted  them,  and  stood 
revealed,  gorgeous  and  mysterious,  creating  an  immense 
sensation. 

"  Aunt  Cora  hoped  that  I  would  write  the  fortunes ; — 
a  couplet  of  amusing  doggerel  for  each  would  have  been 
enough ; — but  I  put  it  off  for  two  or  three  days,  forgot 


THE  lady's  shrift.  369 

it,  and  did  not  think  of  it  again  till  Annette  came  with 
her  empty  casket,  at  five  o'clock  on  the  fated  afternoon; 
when  I  had  a  headache  and  was  just  going  to  dress.  I 
sat  down  fjr  an  hour,  and  scribbled  ofi"  twenty  or  thirty 
as  fast  as  I  could ;  but  then  I  had  to  go  to  my  toihtie, 
and  left  poor  aunty  in  the  lurch,  to  find  the  rest  where 
she  might.  She  was  disappointed  ;  for  she  expected,  at 
the  least,  forty  little  guests  ;  and  what  half  of  them  had, 
the  other  half  would  be  sure  to  want ;  but  she  took  it 
kindly,  thanked  me,  and  said  that  perhaps,  as  a  last 
resort,  Uncle  Henry  would  write  some.  So  I  left  the 
business  on  her  hands,  and  thought  no  more  about  it. 
When  the  time  came,  however,  the  supply  of  little 
orange,  purple,  scarlet,  and  green  papers,  seemed  in- 
exhaustible; and  some  of  them,  I  found  when  the 
children  brought  them  to  me  to  read,  had  verses  in 
them  prettier  than  mine,  or,  I  thought,  than  any  Uncle 
Henry  could  write,  and  in  a  hand  I  did  not  know. 

"  When  all  the  children  knew  their  doom,  Annette 
salaamed  to  Aunt  Cora,  and  withdrew,  after  giving  her 
the  casket.  It  was  not  even  yet  empty.  In  the  bottom 
there  were  several  envelopes  of  gold  and  silver  paper ; 
and  she  gave  them  to  us,  older  girls.  Mine  had  within 
it  these  lines,  written  in  that  unknown  hand :  [Con- 
stance's memory  was  a  perfect  library.  She  could 
usually  repeat  any  passage  that  struck  her  particularly, 
either  in  poetry  or  prose,   after  reading  it  twice  or 

thrice.] 

•  Maiden  fair  and  proud, 
Thou,  amidst  the  crowd, 
Movest  like  a  thing  apart, 
"With  a  pure,  but  cold,  cold,  heart! 
Like  yon  clear  cold  river. 
By  whose  side  the  aspens  shiver. 
And  the  elms  their  drooping  green 
Hold  aloft,  its  front  to  screen 
16* 


370  HERMAN. 

From  the  hot  intrusive  sun; 
And  wild  roses,  one  by  one, 
Peep  with  timid,  blushing,  grace, 
In  its  cool  impassive  face, 
"While  it  goes  unlingering  by, 
Lonely  in  its  majesty. 
Thankless,  self-involved,  sedate, 
In  its  flat  and  shallow  state. 

♦  Maiden,  wouldst  thou  know 
Where  tliat  river's  flow 
Grows  most  high  and  deep  ?— 
Where  it,  from  the  steep 
Of  its  rocky  pride,  doth  stoop 
To  wet  the  lips  of  flowers  that  droop 
In  the  lowly  vale  beneath ! 
There  opal  clouds  its  beauty  wreathe 
The  heavens,  that  see  it,  straight  fling  down 
Their  striped  rainbows,  for  its  crown  ; 
And  its  abasement  speaks  in  thunder, 
With  such  a  voice,  that  all  men  wonder 
And  the  rooted  earth  doth  shake, 
And  an  answering  murmur  make. 

'Wouldst  thou  be  so  high? 
Bow  in  charity 
To  the  humblest  near  thee, — 
Those  who  need,  yet  fear  thee ! 
Then  shall  clouds,  if  they  surround, 
But  adorn,  with  rainbows  crowned. 
Thy  heaven-watched,  plenteous,  bounteous  hie; 
The  world,  amid  its  selfish  strife, 
Around  thy  path  shall  feel  a  thrill 
Of  wonder,  murmur,  and  be  still; 
While  with  a  grand  unearthly  voice 
Thy  long-mute  being  bids  rejoice 
The  heavenly  Shepherd^s  panting  flocks, 
That  bleat  along  tlie  thirsty  rocks, 
And,  even  in  thy  saddest  hours. 
Thy  tears  revive  God's  drooping  flowers.' 

"  I  had  time  only  to  glance  at  the  first  words  then  ; 
for  I  was  wanted  to  play  Magical-Music  on  the  piano 
for  the  children.     When  they  were  gone,  I  stood  under 


Tfll-;    L.\J)y's    SHKIFT.  371 

a  chandelier,  ai.>d  read  the  whole,  once,  twice,  thrice. 
It  surprised  and  puzzled  me,  and  gave  me  a  glimpse  of 
myself,  such  as  I  had  never  had  before.  I  had  no 
objection  to  being  told,  that  I  was  proud.  (I  think  we 
are  many  of  us  more  vain  of  our  faults  than  of  our  vir- 
tues, Herman !  Just  as  the  courtiers  overlooked  Prince 
Kosey's  pretty  other  features,  and  said  to  him,  '  It  is  a 
most  princely  and  becoming  thing  to  have  so  huge  a 
nose  !' — Satan  says  to  us, '  It  is  a  most  becoming  thing, 
and  a  proof  of  a  peculiarly  noble  nature,  to  have  so 
fastidious  a  sensitiveness,  reserve  so  invincible,  haugh- 
tiness so  unapproachable,  and  so  sovereign  a  contempt 
for  all  those  less  favored  by  birth,  fortune,  and  educa- 
tion, thaTi  ourselves !  In  short,  arrogance,  hastiness 
of  temper,  and  exclusiveness^  are  the  indisputable 
patent  of  inherent  nobility  I'  and,  as  with  his  royal 
highness,  so  it  is  with  us;  until  we  acknowledge  our 
blemishes  to  be  blemishes,  we  cannot  be  freed  from  them ; 
and  that  is  the  reason,  I  suppose,  why  so  many  of  us  carry 
them  with  us  into  the  other  world,  and,  when  it  is  too 
late, — when  our  fleshly  disguises  are  stripped  off, — 
behold  ourselves,  and  are  beheld  by  others,  ugly  hends.) 
However,  there  was  a  rather  diff'erent  view  from  mine 
taken  here  of  my  pet  peccadillo.  '  Cold  I  self-involved ! 
thankless  I'  If  those  little  adjectives  were  intended  for 
me,  I  thought  them  specimens  of  pretty  plain  speaking ; 
and  it  was  not  every  one,  from  whom  I  was  disposed  to 
take  them  in  good  part.  Then,  careless  and  hurried  a<- 
the  versification  was,  there  was  a  suggestion  in  the  last 
stanza,  which  startled  me  like  a  hidden  door  suddenly 
opened  before  me,  through  the  blank  stone  wall  of  my 
future,  showing  me  a  long  solemn  vista  lighted  from 
above  ;  and  at  its  end  lay  paradise. 

"  While  I  read,  and  wondered,  and  pondered,  the 


372  HEKMAiS\ 

bishop,  who  had  been  present  in  his  most  genial  mood 
all  the  evening,  merry-making  and  making  merry,  like 
a  playful  shepherd  among  the  little  lambs  of  his  flock, 
spoke  at  my  elbow  :  '  The  answer  of  the  oracle  ?  Can- 
not you  make  it  out  V 

"  '  Its  words,  but  not  its  meaning,  nor  its  author. 
Can  you  help  me,  sir  V  said  I. 

"  He  took  it  from  me,  and  slowly  read  it  to  himself. 
'  So  this  came  to  you !'  he  said  at  length.  '  A  coinci- 
dence !  as  you  enlightened  Protestants  would  say.  What 
a  superstitious  old  Catholic  like  me,  would  rather  call 
a  providence !' 

" '  You  have  seen  it  before  V 

" '  Certainly ;  I  wrote  it,'  he  replied,  with  the  utmost 
frankness.  '  I  came  in  at  twilight,  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  the  magic  lantern  as  I  promised  Mrs.  Ronald- 
son,  and  found  her  in  perplexity  about  the  fortunes,' — 
"  '  Which  I  promised  to  furnish,  and  forgot ;' 

"  He  bowed,  and  went  on,  '  That  fact  she  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  mention.  I  accept  your  candid 
confession  as  your  penance,  and  absolve  you. — I  wrote 
the  required  number,  and  this  among  them.' 

"  '  And  thought  of  me  V 

"  '  I  have  often  thought  of  you  lately,  and  with 
much  solicitude  and  sympathy.  You  do  not  complain  ; 
but  it  is  the  duty  of  the  physician  of  the  soul,  as  well 
as  the  physician  of  the  body,  to  learn  to  interpret  tlie 
dumb  signs  of  speechless  suflering.  My  skill  has  seldom 
been  so  baffled  as  in  the  study  of  your  case.  It  cannot 
be  a  common  one ;  for  you  are  not  a  common  woman. 
Without  some  aid  from  you,  I  shall  never,  I  begin  to 
fear,  understand  it.  Of  thus  much  I  am  certain : 
girl  as  you  are,  you  are  passing,  alone  and  in  silence, 
through  grief  and  despair  which  might  drive  a  strong 


THK  lajjy's  shkift.  373 

man  mud ;  and  1  am  also  sure  that,  if  you  would  allow 
me,  I  could  relieve  and  save  you ;  because  the  holy 
church  has  balm  for  every  wound.  However,  if  I  had 
known  that  these  verses  were  to  fall  to  your  share,  I 
might  certainly  have  toned  them  down  to  advantage. 
Flat  and  shallow !  your  stateliness  is  anything  but 
that ;  I  must  have  been  thinking  of  the  river,  rather 
than  of  you,  when  I  wrote  it.  I  had  no  right  to  say 
anything  of  the  sort  to  you.  I  was  hurried,  and  had  just 
come  from  the  confessional,  and  forgotten  to  lay  aside  the 
trick  of  plain  speaking  ;  and, — in  short,  you  will  forget 
the  unlucky  scrawl,  will  you  not,  and  forgive  an  old 
friend  for  an  unintentional,  acknowledged,  and  de- 
plored offence  V  said  he,  with  touching  humility,  twist- 
ing the  paper  to  a  match  in  his  hand,  and  holding  it  up 
towards  a  candle. 

"  '  Xo,'  cried  I,  springing  forward  to  intercept  it,  '  I 
cannot  find  it  in  my  heart,  to  waste  things  so  precious 
as  forgiveness  and  forgetfulness.  I  will  neither  pardon 
an  imaginary  offence,  nor  forget  a  prophecy  so  far 
above  my  hopes  or  deserts.  Eight  ? — you  have  a  right 
to  say  anything  to  me  that  I  need  to  hear  ;  or,  if  you 
have  not,  I  will  give  you  one !  Speak  plainly  to  me  ; 
I  can  bear  it.  Faulty  I  may  be, — must  be,  — but  not 
weak,  or,  at  least,  not  altogether  weak ;  for,  as  you 
have  seen  or  I  would  not  have  told  you,  I  know  how 
to  suffer,  and  to  suffer  in  silence.  Flatterers  are  manv  ; 
friends  are  few.  Probe  my  heart,  if  you  will,  but 
gently,  for  its  wounds  have  rankled  long ;  and  satisfy 
yourself  that  they  are  incurable.  I  will  endeavour  to 
welcome  the  pain,  for  the  sake  of  the  charity  which 
prompts  you  to  inflict  it.' 

"  He  paused  and  considered.  Then  he  said, 
'  When  can  I  see  you  ?  It  is  too  late  to  begin  any- 
thing to-night.' 


374  IIEKMAN. 

"  '  Name  your  own  time. — All  times  are  alike  to 


U  ( 


Poor  child  ! — No,  1  will  not.  To  know^  when  I 
was  coming,  wonld  only  make  yon  nervons.  Let  me 
call  when  I  can.  I  shall  be  particularly  busy  all  this 
week ;  but  perhaps  in  the  course  of  the  next,  or  the 
week  after,  I  may  find  you  disengaged.  If  you  are 
not,  you  can  send  me  away  again.  You  are  not  at  all 
subject  to  sudden  illness  V 

"'N'ot  at  all.' 

" '  If  you  should  be  ill,  or  meet  with  any  dan- 
gerous accident,  you  would  not  fail  to  send  for  me 
instantly  V 

"  '  There  is  no  one  on  whose  sympath}^  and  support 
I  should  more  confidently  rely.' 

"  '  JSTor  any  one  to  whose  rescue  I  should  hasten  so 
anxionsly.  Send  after  me,  wherever  I  am.  I  shall 
leave  word  at  my  house,  whenever  I  leave  it,  where  I 
am  going,  until  I  have  seen  you  again.' 

"  He  was  so  very  kind  and  solicitous  about  me,  that 
he  found  time  after  all,  to  call  the  very  next  morning. 
Not  expecting  him,  I  was  sitting  here  alone,  in  doleful 
consultation  with  a  dictionary  and  a  grammar,  trying 
listlessly  to  puzzle  out  a  page  or  two  of  ^Cicero  de 
SenecUvte^  I  learned  a  little  Latin  at  school;  and 
I  had  taken  it  np  again,  since  my  conversations  with 
him  had  stimulated  my  mind,  with  a  vague  idea  that 
it  was  a  good  thing  to  do,  and  a  dignified  way  of  get- 
ting rid  of  my  time.  At  first  our  interview  was  rather 
awkward.  He  waited  for  me;  and  I,  for  him.  He 
looked  at  my  book.  '  Latin  ?'  said  he ;  '  Do  you  like  it  V 

"  '  Frankly,  no.  Less  than  any  other  language 
that  I  ever  studied.  There  is  so  rigid,  petrified,  and 
crystallized  a  regularity  in  the  forms  and  terminations, 


THE    LADY  S    6HKIFT.  375 

and  such  utter  seeming  confusion  in  the  arrangement 
of  the  words  !  It  is  so  dreadfully  unlike  English,  that 
it  makes  me  feel  both  home-sick  and  spell-bound.  It 
often  reminds  me  of  a  frightful  di*eam,  by  which  1  was 
oncu  \ormented  when  a  school-girl.  They  tried  to 
teach  me  geometry  ;  and  I  believe  I  fairly  fell  sick  of 
it.  At  all  events,  fall  sick  1  did,  from  whatever  cause  ; 
and,  as  often  as  I  could  lose  myself  in  a  feverish  slum- 
ber, \  found  myself  in  a  wilderness  of  mere  huge,  hard, 
gray  granite  prisms,  cubes,  and-so-forth, — every  block, 
that  I  looked  at  successively,  having  more  and 
blunter  angles,  and  huger  and  blanker  sides  than  its 
neighbours — piled  up  to  the  sky,  around  to  the  horizon, 
and  down  to  the  centre.  At  last,  when  I  had  fuiiy 
possessed  myself  of  their  grim  individuality,  and  they 
themselves  of  mine, — for  they  all  seemed  to  watch 
and  crouch  for  me  like  so  many  blind  but  sentient 
Sphinxes, — they  began  to  stir  and  tumble  grittily  down 
over  one  another,  and  finally  over  me;  when  the 
hard,  blank,  horror  reached  its  climax,  and  I  awoke 
screaming.' 

"  He  smiled.  '  The  study  can  hardly  be  any  great 
pleasure  to  you,  then,'  said  he.  '  Why  do  you  pur- 
sue it?' 

"  '  I  hardly  know.     Why  do  others  ?' 

" '  A  few  men  and  women  from  love  of  it.  Many 
men  from  ambition.' 

"  *  And  no  women  from  ambition  ?' 

"'A  woman  of  creative  genius,  here  and  there,  may 
perhaps,  to  strengthen  and  expand  her  brains  ; — as  an 
athlete  fights  with  a  shadow,  to  strengthen  and  expand 
his  muscles ; — as  a  means,  not  as  an  end.' 

"  '  But  why  should  not  other  women,  too,  as  well  as 
the  many  men,  who,  as  you  say,  become  learned  from 


376  HERMAN. 

ambition  ?  I  do  not  think  I  quite  understand.  Surely 
not  all  of  them  who  do  so,  are  creative  geniuses.' 

"  '  By  no  means,  my  daughter.  [How  patiently 
and  pityingly  the  word  came  out!  I  had  been  an 
orphan  so  long !]  But  they  can  be  physicians,  law- 
yers, and  dignitaries  in  Church  and  State ;  and,  in  all 
their  several  walks  of  life,  they  find  full  employment 
and  demand  for  highly-cultivated  minds.  Diplomas 
are  showered  upon  them,  professorships  conferred  upon 
them,  and  flatteries  interchanged  with  them  by  other 
scholars  all  the  world  over.     Are  you  ambitious  V 

"  '  I  hardly  know.  'Not  very,  I  believe,  naturally, 
or,  at  least,  not  for  myself.  If  I  sometimes  strive  to 
become  so  now,  ambition  itself  is  to  me  a  means  rather 
than  an  end.  If  I  am  ambitious,  it  is  to  obtain  the 
power  of  exorcism.' 

"  'In  your  turn,  you  puzzle  me.' 

"  '  I  am  haunted,  father  !' 

"'My  child,  by  what?' 

"  '  By  a  thought !'  I  said ;  and  I  closed  my  eyes 
involuntarily,  to  shut  it  out.  Oh,  Herman  !  I  never 
could  repeat  all  this  to  you,  if  I  did  not  grudge  it  to 
any  man,  the  holiest  and  the  best,  that  he  should  know 
anything  of  me  that  was  kept  back  from  you,  my 
betrothed !" 

"  My  own  sweet  Constance  !  Why  should  you 
shrink  from  making  me  believe,  if  you  can,  that  you 
cared  for  me  one  thousandth  part  as  much  as  I  did  for 
you?' 

Constance  smiled  faintly,  glanced  timidly  into  his 
face,  looked  down  again,  and  went  on :  "  Then  the 
Bishop  said,  very  gently  and  compassionately,  '  Cannot 
you  explain  yourself  a  little  further,  my  daughter  ? — • 
Take  courage,  and  endeavour  to  think  aloud. — Forget 


377 

that  any  ear  is  present  to  hear  you,  except  His  whose 
mouth-piece  I  am. — Remember,  that  a  painful  malady 
is  always  less  terrible  to  .the  physician  than  to  the 
patient. — You  know,  that  I  may  almost  be  said  to 
have  a  hereditary  right  to  your  confidence. — Perhaps 
you  will  allow  me  to  ofier  a  conjecture  as  to  the  nature 
of  your  suffering  V 

"  I  bowed.  He  opened  the  '  Golden  Legend,'  which 
lay  before  us  on  the  table,  and  turned,  and  pointed,  to 

the  lines, 

'  Love,  that  in  every  woman's  heart 
Will  have  the  whole,  and  not  a  part ; 
And  is  to  her,  in  Nature's  plan, 
More  than  ambition  is  to  man, ' — 

"  I  started.  He  looked  at  me.  The  trap  had 
sprung.  There  was  no  escape.  Covering  my  face 
with  my  hands,  1  cried,  '  My  lover  proved  unworthy  ; 
[I  really  thought  so  then,  Herman ;  there  is  nothing 
that  we  cannot  believe,  if  we  do  but  assert  it  often 
enough ;]  and  I  discarded  him,  at  once  and  forever. 
One  can  be  very  strong  for  an  hour.  He  returns  no 
more.  His  memory  does,  and  is  driven  away  only  to 
return, — in  solitude,  in  society,  in  hours  that  should  be 
gay,  and  in  hours  that  should  be  holy.  Who  can  be 
stronor  at  all  times,  and  forever?  I  struof^le.  Mv  life 
shall  giv^e  way  before  my  resolution  does ;  but  I  some- 
times think  that  both  may,  before  my  grief.  Press  me 
no  further,  kind  father ;  but,  if  you  have  the  skill, 
teach  me  the  way  to  cast  this  demon  out.  Could  not 
ambition  do  it,  think  you  V 

"  He  hesitated.  '  Tell  me  what  you  really  think,' 
I  urged ;  '  surely  my  openness  deserves  frankness  in 
return.' 

"  His  answer  was  to  the  point,  as  usual.     (It  is  one 


378  HERMAN. 

great  charm  of  his  conversation,  that  he  always  takes 
up  a  subject  just  where  you  leave  it ;  instead  of  merely 
waiting  for  you  to  pause,  and  then, — as  so  many  people 
do, — going  on  to  make  a  speech  of  his  own,  perfectly 
disconnected  with  what  you  have  said,  as  if  he  was 
playing  crambo.)  '  You  shall  have  it,  my  daughter,' 
said  he,  '  since  you  ask  for  it.  As  a  man  of  honor,  I 
cannot  deny  that  successful  ambition  may  often  stupify 
misery  like  yours ;  though,  like  other  opiates  and  ano- 
dynes, it  is  apt  in  the  end  to  leave  behind  a  worse 
disorder  in  the  place  of  that  which  it  alleviates.  But 
the  world  has  three  prizes  only,  that  I  recollect,  to  offer 
to  the  ambition  of  women  ;  and  the  triumph  of  learning 
is  not  one  of  them.  Study  as  hard  as  you  can,  for  the 
sake  of  that,  and  you  will  succeed  only  in  becoming  a 
woman  among  scholars,  and  a  scholar  amongst  women. 
You  will  find  no  companionship  in  your  own  sex,  nor  ad- 
miration in  the  other.  Crowd  your- fine  and  subtle,  but 
small  and  sensitive,  brain  as  full  as  it  will  bear,  with 
Greek  and  Hebrew  roots  and  crabbed  Latin  authors. 
Hundreds  of  thick-skulled  Germans,  Englishmen,  and 
even  New-Englanders,  will  bear  away  the  palm  from 
you.  Your  head  will  no  more  hold  as  much  as  theirs, 
than  your  stomach  would.  You  might  as  well  chal- 
lenge a  prize-fighter  to  eat  forty  pounds  of  beef  with 
you  upon  a  wager.  You  are  like  a  swan  running  a 
race  with  an  ostrich.  The  creature  is  out  of  its  ele- 
ment. Men  will  ridicule  and  despise  your  vain  attempt 
to  outdo  them  on  their  own  ground,  and  join  with 
women  in  setting  down  to  the  account  of  your  unfemi- 
nine  accomplishments  all  the  shortcomings  in  feminine 
duties  in  which  they  can  detect  you,  or  of  which  they 
can  suspect  you.'  " 

"  The  Bishop  was  severe,"  said  Herman. 


THE    lady's    6HK1F1.  ,  379 

'•  But  riu:lit,  was  he  not  V 

"  Half.  Kight  enough,  1  dare  say,  in  thinking  that 
Nature  had  been  unkind  enough  to  incapacitate  most 
women  from  outstripping,  in  their  greedy  race,  mere 
gluttonous  ostriches  of  envious  and  selfish  pedantry. 
But  I  interrupted  you." 

"  The  Bishop  went  on  :  '  Let  Cicero  alone,  then  ;  or 
read  him  in  English,  if  you  don't  like  Latin.  !No.  The 
real  prizes  which  the  world  offers  to  the  ambition  of  a 
woman  and  a  lady  are  three  :  first,  what  it  calls  a  great 
match ;  secondly,  eminence  as  a  writer ;  and,  thirdly, 
success  in  sculpture,  painting,  or  the  composition  of 
music,  which  arts  we  will  throw  into  one  department, 
and  consider  them  together  under  one  head  ;  as,  among 
them  all,  they  may  furnish  one  ever-green  laurel  wreath, 
for  one  woman,  in  one  century.  Can  you  think  of  any 
others  V 

"  '  I  have  sometimes  thought  that,  if  I  were  a  poor 
girl,  and  if  actors  and  actresses  were  a  more  refined 
set  of  people  than  they  are  said  to  be,  I  could  find  a 
career,  excitement,  and  oblivion,  among  them.' 

"He  looked  at  me  with  astonishment,  and  some- 
thing more  like  sternness  than  I  had  ever  seen  in  his 
face  before,  and  rejoined,  'But  now? — they  being  what 
they  are  said  to  be,  and  you,  a  lady  V 

" '  I  cannot  go  upon  the  stage.' 

"  His  brows  unbent ;  and  he  replied,  '  Eight !  If  I 
were  indeed  your  spiritual  father,  and  we  were  consid- 
ering your  eternal  instead  of  your  temporal  welfare,  I 
should  be  obliged  to  tell  vou  that  you  could  take  no 
more  probable  way  than  that,  to  purchase  a  little  tem- 
porary ease  or  delirium  at  the  expense  of  everlasting 
torments  and  horrors !  But,  one  thing  at  a  time.  I 
am  to  talk  to  you,  just  now,  as  a  man  of  the  world  to  a 


380  HERMAN. 

woman  of  the  world.  My  three  alternatives  remain. 
Let  us  consider  your  chances  as  a  candidate  for  each. 
Marriage :  women  like  you, — supposing  that  there  are 
enough  women  like  you  to  constitute  a  class, — do  not, 
unless  my  penetration  is  at  fault,  love  twice,  nor  marry 
without  love  V     He  waited  for  an  answer. 

"  'Your  penetration  is  not  at  fault.  O  father,  in 
pity  let  us  speak  no  more  of  that !' 

"  '  Forgive  me !  no ;  I  will  not  touch  your  poor 
heart  again,  until  you  give  me  leave  to  heal  it ;  and  if 
I  have  done  so  hitherto,  it  was  not  from  heedlessness, 
but  from  necessity.  My  child,  it  was  needful  that  the 
wound  should  be  thoroughly  searched,  before  it  could 
be  dressed ;  but  that  has  now  been  done.  For  the 
present,  let  it  alone.  There,  remain  then,  open  to 
you,  literature  and  art,  if  you  are  a  woman  of  genius ; 
if  not,  of  course,  failure  will  be  your  only  attainment 
in  either.  Now,  what  is  vulgarly  called  talent,  J  know 
that  you  have  to  a  high  degree;  but  genius  is  so  rare, 
that  the  presumption  is  always  strongly  against  its 
being  possessed  by  any  one,  either  man  or  woman, 
11 11  til  its  possession  has  been  proved.  Perhaps  you 
liave  it,  notwithstanding.-  Let  us  see.  Let  me  ask 
you  a  question  or  two.  For  which  do  you  feel  within 
yourself  the  greatest  aptitude, — literature  or  art  V 

"  '  Of  tlie  two,  I  think,  for  literature.  I  can  copy 
,  with  my  pencil  anything  that  I  see ;  but  I  cannot  de- 
sign. I  can  read  any  music,  and  even  ^\?iy  fantasie 
when  I  am  in  the  mood ;  but  I  fear  that  they  owe  all 
the  merit,  which  they  have,  to  their  being  executed 
with  the  expression  of  the  momentary  feeling  which 
prompts  them.  I  cannot  write  them  down  ;  because  I 
know  nothing  of  the  rules  of  music  ;  and  I  am  sure, 
that  what  little  inspiration  T  have, would  die  under  the 
irudgery  of  learning  Mud   conforming  to  tliem.     On 


THE   lady's  sheift.  381 

the  utlier  hand,  I  write  prose  and  verse  with  ease,  and 
sometimes  with  pleasure.' 

*•  •  In  literature  you  will  probably  succeed,  then,  if 
in  either.  Your  destiny,  perhaps,  often  faces  yoii  when 
you  awake  in  the  morning,  or  arouses  you  in  the  night, 
or  confronts  you  in  the  bustle  of  the  day,  with  a  dim 
plan  in  her  hand, — a  sketch  of  a  romance,  a  poem,  or 
a  play. — She  will  give  you  only  fitful  glimpses  of  it, 
probably.  She  half  unrolls  it;  then  she  folds  it  up. 
She  lets  you  see  sometimes  the  beginning  only, — some- 
times the  middle, — sometimes  the  two  ends.  She  is  very 
seldom  indulgent  enough  to  reveal  to  you  the  whole,  at 
once.  If  she  ever  does  so,  it  is,  most  likely,  for  an 
instant  only,  and  with  a  malignant  purpose  to  overload 
and  overwhelm  you  with  more  details  than  your 
memory  can  hold.  She  says,  however,  This  plan,  which 
I  hold  in  my  hand,  half  hid  even  from  your  eyes,  you 
are  doomed  to  carry  out  before  the  eyes  of  mankind. 
The  memory  of  its  unearthly  beauty  shall  haunt  and 
fever  you  ;*  its  grandeur  shall  oppress  you  ;  its  very 
difficulty  shall  defy  and  taunt  you,  until  your  work  is 
done.  From  what  I  have  already  shown  you,  guess  the 
rest.  The  rest  is  there, — somewhere, — and  traceable 
in  full  harmonious  proportions  from  the  portion  you 
have  seen.  Dispatch  I  For  you  there  is  to  be  no 
cheerful,  calm  companionship,  no  refreshing  sleep,  no 
relished  food,  until  the  task  lies  behind  you,  that  now 
lies  before.  You  may  fly ;  but  I  shall  follow.  You 
may  pine  ;  I  shall  not  pity.  You  may  fall  sick  ;  but  I 
shall  lie  in  wait  for  your  recovery,  and  put  your  pen, 
before  your  needle,  into  your  trembling  hand. 

"  '  She  speaks ;  and  you  obey,  impatient  to  have  the 


The  memory  of  a  beautiful  denied  you  shall  strain  your  powers. 

E.  B.  Browning. 


382  HERMAN. 

doom  behind  you  instead  of  before.  You  go  apart 
fearfully,  shut  your  door,  and  give  yourself  up  to  the 
mysterious  prompting,  like  a  Pythia  forced  to  the 
tripod.  You  are  no  longer  a  woman,  but  a  writing- 
medium^ — a  soothsayer, — a  seer.  Ideal  creatures  swarm 
in  the  air  about  you.  You  throw  yourself  into  them  ; 
they,  themselves  into  you.  You  speak  their  words,  do 
their  deeds,  feel  their  feelings,  shriek  their  pangs.  The 
thoughts  thicken.  They  dazzle, — they  blind  you.  Your 
brain  reels  with  them.  Bewildered,  you  turn  this  way 
and  that  until  you  are  dizzy,  to  catch  them  before  they 
escape  you ;  as  a  child  does  to  catch  all  the  snow-flakes 
in  a  hurrying  storm.  Your  heart  beats  hard ;  your 
breath  pants  fast.  Still  you  hurry  on  ;  because  you 
cannot  stop, — because  the  preternatural  dictation  does 
not. — Time  hurries  on  with  you.  Your  clock  strikes 
the  hours  as  fast  as  it  usuallj^  ticks  the  minutes, — 
hours  which  do  on  you  the  work  of  years, — such  hours 
as  stamp  wrinkles  on  the  brow,  and  on  the  brain. 

"  '  At  length  a  sudden  stop  surprises  you.  Coming 
to  yourself,  you  look  about  you,  and  perceive  that  your 
task  is  iiriished.  That  is,  at  least,  a  relief.  You  lan- 
guidly take  it  up,  turn  it  over,  and  read  it,  at  lirst  with 
curiosity,  then  with  admiration,  and  then  with  amaze- 
ment. It  is  something  new  under  the  sun.  It  does 
not  seem  to  you  to  be  yours.  It  is  not,  properly  speak- 
ing:, thousrh  it  makes  vou  famous .  It  is  the  work  of 
the  demon  whose  servant  you  are.  It  is  strong ;  but 
you  are  weak. — weaker  even  than  ever  before.  He 
has  taken  much  of  your  life  to  put  into  it.  A  few  more 
such  achievements,  and  all  will  be  spent;  and  you  will 
go  to  him  for  the  arrears  of  your  wages. 

"  'Have  you  ever  felt  ai;y thing  like  tliis?'  said  the 
Bishop.     I  never  had." 

"  Thank  God  !"  cried  Herman. 


THE    lady's   sHETFT.  3S3 

**  Are  you  glad  i  Then  I  am,  too,  now  ;  though  I 
was  rather  sorry  at  that  time,  to  tell  the  truth." 

''  Indeed  I  am  I  Self-tbrgetfulness  is  one  thing, — 
and  one  of  the  noblest  things,  too,  under  the  sun  ; — 
self-abandonment,  quite  another.  Xobody  can  love  a 
generous  ardor  and  enthusiasm  more  than  I  do  ;  but  I 
distrust  and  detest  unnatural  excitement  of  all  kinds. 
Why  should  it  be  more  right  or  reputable,  wilfully  to 
inflame  and  finally  to  destroy  one's  God-given  brain 
with  undue  solitude,  fasting,  or  labor,  than  with  opium, 
in  order  to  write,  carve,  or  paint,  better  than  one's 
neighbours  i — for  that,  I  take  it,  is  what  the  cant  about 
sacrificing  one's  self  to  art  commonly  means,  in  plain 
English.*' 

'•  The  bishop  was  glad,  too,"  said  Constance.  '*  'But 
that,'  said  he,  *  is  female  genius.  It  is  the  forbidden 
fruit,  which  is  now  and  then  ofiered  to  Eve's  daugh- 
ters by  the  Serpent,  as  it  was  to  her.  Like  her,  they 
do  not  thrive  upon  if.  It  first  intoxicates,  then  kills 
them.' 

'• '  But  surely,'  I  exclaimed,  '  not  all  women  of 
genius  answer  this  description  I' 

" '  To  be  sure,'  said  he,  *  now  I  think  of  it,  ^here  are 
exceptions,  some  of  whom  you  may  have  met  with,  but 
whom  I  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  mention,  be- 
cause I  could  not  believe  that  your  place  rould  be 
found  among  them, — female  geniuses,  if  you  will,  but 
females  not  of  feminine  but  of  masculine  genius.  I 
have  myself  chanced  here  and  there  to  encounter  some 
nondescript,  calling  herself  a  woman,  who,  w'thout  any 
goading  inward  gad-fly  or  exhausting  fire  in  her  veins, 
besieged  eminence  scientifically,  month  after  month 
and  year  after  year,  and  conquered  it  at  last,  by  regu- 
lar approaches,  like  a  man.     She  has  nr-  Mea^t  to  ^mset- 


384  HERMAN. 

tie  her  aim  by  its  perturbations ;  and  her  iron  nerves 
and  India-rubber  spirits  are  incapable  of  weariness  and 
discouragement.  She  eats,  drinks,  sleeps,  laughs,  and 
talks,  but  deliberately  succeeds  notwithstanding.  She 
regularly  and  readily  takes  her  seat  on  the  tripod  every 
day,  for  a  certain  number  of  hours ;  she  suffers  only 
when  she  is  kept  away ;  and  even  then  she  endures  it 
stoically.  If  Apollo  will  not  come  down,  she  cheerfully 
makes  him  a  curtsey  at  the  en'd  of  the  time,  and  goes 
away,  watching  all  the  time,  however,  with  the  stanch, 
calm,  cold-blooded,  persistent  instinct  of  a  cat  that  sits 
beside  a  mouse-hole, — while  she  seems  intent  only  upon 
her  needle-work  or  housekeeping, — to  pull  him  down 
upon  her  head,  if  he  lets  drop  within  her  reach  so  much 
as  the  hem  of  his  garment,  or  one  golden  hair.  The 
next  day,  she  is  at  her  post  again,  and  the  next ; 
until  she  fairly  tires  him  down,  and  he  does  her  bidding 
to  be  rid  of  her. 

"  '  She  is  an  open-eyed,  clear-sighted  looker-on  in 
life ;  and  what  others  secretly  feel,  she  openly  expresses. 
Men  have  hitherto  had  the  pen  to  themselves  almost  as 
exclusively  as  the  sword.  The  thoughts  and  feelings 
of  distinctive  manhood  have  become  commonplace  by 
long  repetition.  Women,  with  a  few  exceptions,  have 
but  lately  begun  to  write  with  energy,  simplicity,  and 
the  artistic  skill  which  comes  of  liberal  culture ;  and, 
even  now,  there  is  not  more  than  one  woman  in  ten 
thousand  capable  of  writing,  with  force  and  fire,  what 
distinctive  womanhood  has  been  thinking  and  feeling 
from  the  beginning  of  time.  Hence,  such  a  person  as 
I  have  in  my  mind  finds  fresh  themes  in  plenty  ready 
to  her  firm,  bold,  and  masterly  hand.  She  handles 
them  accordingly,  and  has  her  reward ;  but  her  very 
reward  would  be  intolerable  to  you. 
17 


THE  lady's  siikift.  385 

'"Men  will  not  believe,  that  a  woman's  ink  can 
glow  so  with  anything  bnt  her  own  heart's  blood.  They 
analyze  it,  in  order  to  find  ont  what  sort  of  stuff  her 
heart  is  made  of,  and  confidently  pronounce  it  the  gall 
of  bitterness.  They  cannot  attribute  to  her  the  pos- 
session of  a  head  for  any  practical  purpose.  The  utter- 
ance of  her  divination,  laying  bare  the  souls  of  others, 
will  always  be  taken  for  a  revelation  of  her  own.  Her 
cold  heart  is  sure  to  get  the  credit  of  all  the  fire  of  her 
pages.  People  insist  on  pitying  her  for  sorrows,  which 
she  is  incapable  of  feeling.  She  takes  their  sympathy 
coolly,  silently,  and  graciously,  as  a  tribute  to  her 
power,  which  is  all  that  this  mere  mind  clad  with 
womanhood  cares  about.  She  smiles  in  her  sleeve,  and 
keeps  her  own  counsels.  Could  you  do  so  ?  Could 
you  bear  to  have  it  supposed,  how  falsely  soever,  by 
every  chance  reader  in  the  booksellers'  shops,  that  you 
had  laid  j^our  autobiography,  with  the  leaves  cut,  in- 
vitingly in  his  way  ?  Could  you  bear  to  have  it  asserted, 
that  you  had  sold  the  sacred  privacy  of  your  shrinking, 
shuddering  soul  for  fame  ?'  " 

"  Is  it  permitted  to  me  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  the 
bishop,  in  behalf  of  this  poor  representative  woman 
of  his,"  asked  Herman,  "  if  I  will  do  so  very  respect- 
fuUy?" 

"  Certainly ;  I  should  like  to  hear  what  you  would 
say ;  and  so  would  he,  if  he  were  here ;  but  oh,  Her- 
man, Herman,  you  are  not  going  to  answer  respectfully  I 
There  is  the  very  sauciest  possible  twinkle  in  your  eyes 
at  this  moment ;  and  there  is  no  use  in  your  trying  to 
draw  your  lips  in  to  hide  under  your  nwustacIteP''  And 
both  of  them,  looking  in  each  other's  faces,  went  back 
to  boyhood  and  girlhood  and  laughed  heartily  together 
for  sheer  happiness  and  affection.  "  Your  verv  ringii.g 
17 


386  HERMAN. 

old  laugh !"  continued  Constance.  "  How  like  the 
dear  old  days  it  sounds !  How  unfortunately  unro- 
m antic  I  used  to  think  it !  How  glad  it  makes  me 
now,  to  hear  it  so  full  of  health  and  happiness!  You 
must  have  kept  it  put  away  for  me  all  these  years.  If 
you  had  brought  it  out  oftener,  it  would  have  changed 
and  grown  older  and  less  mirthful  with  yourself." 

"  Yes ;  there  must  be  some  '  secret  sympathy'  be- 
tween us.  I  could  not  often  laugh  while  you  were 
sighing." 

"  But  you  must  not  laugh  now,  either,  at  the  first 
friend,  who  was  able  to  give  me  any  comfort,  after  I 
drove  you  away ;  or  I  shall  sigh  again." 

"  Don't ;  or  I  shall  never  even  smile  again ;  but 
neither  shall  I  laugh  or  sneer  at  that  poor,  patient 
female  genius  of  his.  The  picture  is  drawn  from  life, 
evidently ;  but  not,  I  think,  quite  to  the  life.  Some 
of  the  outlines,  however,  are  so  true,  that  from  them 
we  can,  I  hope,  correct  the  others.  I  sliould  like  to 
know  that  woman,  Constance ;  though  perhaps,  as  the 
AnonyTThi  in  the  newspapers  say,  when  they  mean  to 
be  especially  withering,  'I  should  not  want  such  a 
woman  as  that  for  my  wife,'  even  supposing, — as  they 
always  forget  to  add, — I  could  have  her  if  I  did  ;  and 
though  I  can  even  conceive  it  to  be  possible  that,  being 
wedded  to  Apollo,  she  might  not  care  to  marrj^  me 
Helpmeets  don't  grow  on  every  bush,  nor  even  or 
every  estimable  and  admirable  bush.  I  never  in  niA 
life  saw  but  one  woman  whom  I  did  wish  to  marry « 
[Constance's  blush  was  as  soft  and  bright  as  sunshine^ 
strained  through  a  crimson  cu'-tain  upon  polished 
ivory  ;  her  long  curled  eye-lashes  lay  basking  upon  it ; 
and  she  looked  most  demurely  nun-like,  most  buprem© 
ly  happy ;]  but   I   have   seen    many  v^horr    I   liked 


3S7 

esteemed,  and  wished  well,  very  heartily ;  and  I  fancy 
that  this  lady  of  masculine  genius  might  be  of  the 
number. — It  seems  to  me,  that  it  is  somewhat  arrogant 
in  us  mighty  men  to  claim  as  masculine,  not  feminine, 
everything  that  is  vigorous,  true,  artistic,  and,  in 
short,  worth  claiming. — If  she  has  a  lyre,  she  probably 
got  it  where  we  got  ours, — those  of  us  who  are  lucky 
enough  to  have  any, — from  the  gods,  such  as  they 
cliose  to  give  her.  She  has  as  much  right  to 
charge  ours  with  being  effeminate  when  they  sound 
sweet,  as  we  hers  with  being  masculine  when  it  sounds 
strong.  If  she  thunders,  we  need  not  accuse  her  of 
having  stolen  our  thunder.  I,  for  one,  will  dispute 
her  possession  neither  of  a  head  nor  a  heart,  even  if 
she  chooses  to  keep  the  latter  to  herself  and  Apollo ; 
nay,  I  think  that  she  must  have  one,  and  a  great  one, 
though  calm,  and 

'  At  leisure  from  iteelf, 

To  soothe  and  sympathize;' 

else  how  should  she  be  let  into  the  secret  of  those 
shrinking  sorrows  and  struggles  of  her  own  sex,  which 
she  rises  above  in  her  individual  life,  yet  makes  her 
own  in  order  to  bespeak  for  others  the  sympathy  and 
compassion  which  for  herself  she  does  not  need, — 
strifes  and  sorrows  which  she  describes  so  vividly  and 
so  eloquently,  that  they  seem,  to  those  too  selfish  to 
understand  her  self-forgetfulness,  to  be  her  own, — while 
the  real  sufferers  remain  sheltered  and  unexposed.  She 
shows  her  real  retenue  and  freedom  from  egotism  by 
never  caring  to  come  forward  in  propria  persona  to 
explain  herself.  She  minds  her  own  business  ;  and  if 
other  people  will  not  mind  theirs,  I  would  rather  that 
she  should  laugh  than  cry. 

"  Because,  though  a  woman,  she  is  human,  and  am- 


388  HERMAN. 

bition  belongs  to, — not  manly  merely, — but  essential 
human  nature,  she  is  ambitious.  Her  sisters,  not  daring 
to  be  '  strong-minded '  enough  to  look  higher,  are  am- 
bitious of  fine  houses,  clothes,  and  equipages ;  she  of 
fine  poems,  plays,  or  romances.  Their  triumphs  are 
over  the  rest  of  her  sex ;  hers,/br  the  rest  of  her  sex. 
A  few  more  women  like  her,  in  the  study  and  the 
studio^  and  the  world  will  find  out  and  acknowledge, 
that  there  is  a  kind  of  power  and  heavenly  fire  that  is 
feminine  or  confined  to  neither  sex,  and  that  women, 
without  being  in  the  slightest  degree  unwomanly,  may 
and  do  have  noble  brains,  and  put  them  to  noble  uses. 
I  like  her  better  far  than  her  predecessor  in  review,  the 
'  writing  medium,'  because,  in  being  an  author,  she  does 
not  forget  to  be  a  woman.  If  her  only  hope  was  set 
on  literary  success,  she  could  hardly  bear  so  cheerfully 
to  be  so  often  balked  in  her  efibrts.  If  she  can  lay  her 
inefibctual  pen  and  paper  aside,  so  good-humoredly, 
when  her  vacant  time  expires,  it  must  be,  I  am  pretty 
sure,  to  go  away  and  perform  the  good  ofiices  of  a  good 
daughter,  sister,  friend,  or  neighbour.  Thus  she  can 
say.  If  this  hope  is  lost,  all  is  not  lost.  She  must  have 
a  brave  and  great  heart  to  bear  such  disappointments 
so  courageously,  and  never  sicken  with  hope  deferred. 
In  order  to  do  so,  it  would  seem  as  if  it  should  be  a 
good  heart,  too,  and  lean  on  God ;  though  being  in 
partnership  with  a  strong  head,  early  and  duly  stocked 
with  ecclesiastical  history,  perhaps  it  is  a  sealed,  and 
appears  a  heretical,  heart  to  the  bishop  and  his  church. 
I  ask  your  pardon.  Am  I  getting  on  forbidden 
ground  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  not  bigoted  ;  and  I  fear  he  may  be  a 
little  so.  Go  on.  I  like  to  hear  about  her.  If  there 
is  such  a  woman,  I  wish  I  could  know  her." 


THE   lady's    SHEIFT.  S'^O 

"  I  wish  you  could ;  for,  without  friendship,  she 
might  be  lonely  in  the  midst  of  her  struggles  and  her 
triumphs.  She  is  most  probably  unmarried  ;  for  if  she 
had  a  husband  and  children,  they  would  interfere  with 
those  regular  tete-d-tetes  with  Apollo.  A  woman  must 
usually  choose  between  art  and  wedlock.  Either  is 
enough  to  engross  her,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  other. 
She  has  chosen  art,  and  is  more  than  content  when  it 
smiles  upon  her,  and  uncomplaining  when  it  frowns. 

"  I  find  no  coldness,  but  rather  a  fine  ardor,  in  her 
calm,  grand  perseverance.  I  don't  quite  believe  in 
that  absence  of  inward  prompting  in  her  case.  If  the 
divine  gadfly  of  inspiration  stings  her,  she  probably 
will  not  think  it  worth  mentioning,  but  will  say,  with 
Mr.  Toots, '  Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank  you  !'  She 
is  strong  enough  to  bear  it  by  herself,  with  the  help  of 
the  wholesome  food,  sleep,  and  recreation,  which  she 
has  sense  enough  to  take.  She  wants  her  readers  to 
think  about,  not  her,  but  the  heroes  and  heroines  whom 
she  talks  to  them  about.  She  does  not  mean  to  have 
them  prying  into  that  heart  of  hers,  at  which  she  looks 
herself  just  often  enough  to  set  it  right  towards  God 
and  her  neighbour,  and  no  oftener.  She  is  not  intro- 
spective. She  sees  many  things  without  her  in  the 
world,  in  heaven,  and  in  hell,  which  she  thinks  much 
better  worth  her  attention  and  ours,  than  anything 
within  her.  I  like  her  better  than  her  predecessor; 
because,  while  self-forgetful,  she  is  still  self-governed. 
I  think  I  should  even  like  her  books  better  than  those 
of  that  possessed  victim  of  glory.  They  might, — they 
would, — be  less  demoniac,  less  maddened  and  madden- 
ing, but  they  would  be  truer,  juster,  sunnier;  one 
would  be  not  unlikely  to  find  in  them  here  and  there, 
amidst  all  their  imperfections,  reflected  glimpses  of  the 


390  HERMAN. 

greatest  of  all  minds,  the  mind  of  God.  If  any  of 
those  books  fell  in  my  way,  I  would  take  them  thank- 
fully, and  use  them  just  as  she  desired,  as  spy-glasses 
to  look  through  at  life,  and  help  me  to  see  it  more 
clearly  ;  I  would  not  invert  them,  and  use  them  to  peer 
back  impertinently  at  her  with,  through  the  wrong  end. 
If  I  could,  I  would  write  reviews  of  them,  such  as 
should  do  good  to  that  good  heart  of  hers, — as  free  from 
paltry  flattery  as  she  from  vanity,  and  letting  her  indi- 
viduality as  utterly  alone  as  she  does, — bestowing  upon 
them  honest  praise  and  no  less  honest  criticism,  such  as 
should  show  her  how  for  the  future  to  polish  away  all 
of  the  blemishes,  of  which  she  would  gladly  be  told,  for 
the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  them." 

"  Oh,  Herman,"  cried  Constance,  "  let  me  thank 
you  for  her ! — Herman — Hermano — you  deserve  your 
name !  A  brother  to  all  man  and  womankind  !  How 
much  better  than  a  brother  to  me  !" — 

"  Yes  ;  you  thank  me,  and  from  your  heart.  You 
have  been  taught  to  disbelieve  your  own  possession  of 
genius ;  and  yet  you  receive  a  tribute  to  its  possession 
and  worthy  exercise  by  any  of  your  sisters,  as  a  tribute 
to  you.  Thus  generous,  noble,  women  think  and  feel ! 
E"or  do  they  think  and  feel  so  of  genius  only,  but  of 
learning  also.  It  is  true,  as  the  bishop  said,  that 
scholarship  in  women  is  not  rewarded  so  abundantly  as 
in  men,  by  academical  distinctions  and  Mutual-Admi- 
ration Societies.  I  am  afraid  it  may  be  also  true,  that 
there  is  a  very  wide  and  very  narrow  prejudice  against 
it ;  because  good  sense  and  good  feeling  are  apt  to  be 
in  the  minority,  on  any  question  newly  presented  to  this 
prejudiced  old  world.  But  all  those  persons,  whose 
opinion  is  really  worth  regarding,  like  a  woman  none 
the  less  for  being  liberally  educated,  provided  slie  is 


THE  lady's  shrift.  391 

none  the  less  conscientious,  useful,  gentle,  and 
genial ;  and  such  of  your  own  sex,  particularly,  as  you 
would  choose  for  companions  and  friends,  sweet  friend, 
have  quite  a  remarkable  habit  of  glorying  and  delight- 
ing in  the  acquirements  and  achievements  of  other 
worthy  specimens  of  womankind,  as  if  they  were  their 
own.  It  is  as  much  as  a  man's  life  is  worth,  among  the 
former,  to  detract  from  the  latter." 

"  I  may  study  or  write,  then,  sometimes,  if  I  will 
choose  you  for  my  director  ?" 

"  On  one  or  two  conditions." 

"What  are  they?" 

"  You  are  not  to  become  a  writing-medium^  nor  to 
drown  your  bloom  and  spirits  in  printer's  ink;  and 
your  learned  labors  are  to  be  pursued  at  my  elbow,  so 
that  I  may  have  the  honor  of  lending  my  aid  to  smooth 
away  any  possible  difficulties,  before  they  have  time  to 
chronicle  themselves  in  wrinkles." 

"  Ko,  I  will  never  be  an  author  or  a  scholar.  The 
conditions  are  too  hard ;  and  so  is  the  work." 

"  What !     Xot  ambitious,  after  all  ?" 

"What!  Do  not  you  propose  to  allow  me  a  share 
henceforth  in  all  your  triumphs  ?" 

"  Certainly ;— all  that  I  have." 

"Then  I  shall  want  no  others,  at  least  of  that  sort," 
murmured  she.  "  But  now  I  must  tell  you  the  rest 
of  '  Ye  Xunne's  Tale.'  The  bishop  asked  me,  further, 
whether  I  had  ever  published  anything.  I  had,  at 
Uncle  Henry's  entreaty,  a  few  times,  allowed  him  to 
have  a  few  of  my  verses  printed  in  a  magazine." 

" '  How  were  they  received  V  inquired  Bishop 
Devereux. 

"  *  They  were  praised  by  some  of  our  acquaintances ; 
because  Uncle  Henrv  told  who  wrote  them.' 


392  UEKMAN. 

'' '  But  were  the}'  noticed  by  strangers  ? — ana- 
lyzed ? — criticised  V 

"'Not  at  all' 

"  '  That  which  does  not  excite  criticism,  is  usually 
below  criticism.  I  fear  that  literary  fame  is  not  for 
you;  and  literary  flattery  will  not'  fill  or  satisfy  your 
mind.  You  are  inordinately  proud,  Miss  Aspenwall, 
since  you  have  given  me  leave  to  say  so ;  but  you  are 
not  vain.  Spontaneous  inspiration,  you  have  not;  a 
masculine  nature,  you  have  not ;  and  you  cannot  whip 
yourself  up  daily  to  long  toil  by  the  hope  of  the  even 
well-earned  praise  of  those,  who  do  not  love  you,  and 
whom  you  do  not  love.  To  you  tlie  world  has  nothing 
to  offer.' 

"'JSTothing!'  I  repeated,  and  stopped.  The  word 
seemed  to  me  to  come  out  of  my  heart,  sounding  like 
an  echo  out  of  an  empty  tomb. 

'^ '  Oh,  yes,'  said  he,  '  I  forgot.  There  is  one  thing. 
You  can  wear  the  finest  dresses,  and  drive  the  finest 
horses  in  Baltimore.' 

"  I  burst  into  tears.  '  Daughter,  daughter !'  cried  he, 
*  Do  not  Vvcep  so.  The  world  has,  indeed,  nothing  to 
offer;  but  I  have  something,  or  I  could  never  have 
steeled  myself  to  infiict  upon  you  all  this  cruel, — this 
necessary,  pain.  I  can,  and  will,  help  and  rescue  you 
out  of  this  deluge  of  tears.  You  shall  be  saved,  poor 
dove! — warmed  and  sheltered,  and  taken  into  the  ark. 
The  world  is  cruel  to  you  and  such  as  you.  Come  out 
of  it.  Come  into  the  only  true  church ;  and  you  shall 
find  full  scope  for  your  fine,full  nature,  rest  for  your  soul 
here,  and  hereafter,  bliss  unspeakable.  Set  your  am- 
bition on  a  heavenly  diadem,  and  you  shall  wear  it  in 
the  train  of  Mary ;  for  heaven  has  a  Queen ;  and  her 
hands   are  full   of  honors   for   her   faithful    servants, 


THE  lady's  sheift.  393 

among  whom  is  neither  male  nor  female,  bond  nor 
free.  Her  canonized  maidens,  like  herself,  are  called 
blessed  by  all  after  generations ;  and,  unless  I  deceive 
myself  very  greatly,  there  is  still  an  empty  place  among 
them  reserved  for  you.  Hear  what  dignities  she  has 
conferred  upon  her  faithful  handmaidens,  even  on 
earth  and  before  the  eyes  of  men,  to  confound  their 
overweening  arrogance !'  and  then  he  broke  forth  into 
one  of  his  wonderful  improvisations,  Herman  ;  until  the 
very  walls  around  us  seemed  to  vanish  from  my  eyes, 
while  in  an  eternal  temple  not  made  with  hands,  and 
in  a  pageant  of  awful  grandeur  and  beauty,  the  holy 
saints,  Theresa,  Agnes,  Catherine,  and  the  rest,  seemed 
to  pass  before  us  in  procession,  wearing  crowns  upon 
their  heads,  and  beckoning  to  me.  I  wished  to  follow 
them.     I  could  not  bear  to  have  the  vision  fade. 

'^  When  he  ceased,  I  told  him  how  it  had  seemed  to 
me.  He  answered,  that  I  had  seen  more  than  he  was 
conscious  of  describing,  but  that  it  was  a  glimpse  of 
the  true  reality ;  and  that  among  such  visions  I  might 
pass  my  earthly  life, — into  such  realities  I  should  be 
born  when  my  earthly  life  was  over, — if  I  would  but 
walk  in  the  footsteps  of  those  saints  here  below,  and 
come  out  of  a  world  which  had  nothing  but  emptiness 
and  vanity  to  offer  me. 

"  '  Out  of  the  world  I'  thouo;ht  I.     Oh, 


*  Anywhere,  anywhere  out  of  the  world !' 

Many  and  many  a  time,  I  had  repeated  that  line  to 
myself  in  those  days ;  and  his  words  appeared  to  me 
strangely  like  an  answer  to  it.  But  I  said  nothino-. 
He  arose  to  go.     '  Stay,'  I  said. 

" '  My  daughter,'  he  answered,  tenderly,  ^  it  pains 
me  too  much  to  look  on,  a  useless  spectator  merely  of 
7* 


394  HERMAN. 

pain  which  I  am  not  permitted  to  relieve, — the  pain  of 
one  whose  suffering  is  sharper  to  me  than  my  own. 
The  wounded  has  endured  the  probe,  but  now  repels 
the  balm.  What  can  the  surgeon  do,  but  depart  to 
the  succor  of  others,  who  have  already  felt  and  learned 
to  welcome  the  touch  of  his  healing  hand  ?  I  must  not 
urge  you.  Wait  if  you  will,  and  take  time  to  make  up 
your  mind ;  but  do  not  wait  too  long.  Life  is  short. 
The  judge  stands  at  the  door.  At  any  moment,  if  my 
time  is  prolonged  to  that  blessed  moment  when  you  are 
ready  to  receive  peace,  I  will  hasten  to  you,  ease  your 
aching  heart  with  absolution,  and  welcome  you  into 
the  sheltering  arms  of  the  only  true  church.  In  the 
meantime,  if  I  send  you  some  books,  will  you  read 
them  on  your  knees, at  night  and  alone?' 

"  I  did  so.  I  liked  his  books.  I  liked  his  conversa- 
tion. But  neither  his  books  nor  his  conversation  made 
me  a  Catholic.  I  did  not  believe,  that  I  should  ever 
be  a  candidate  for  canonization.  I  did  not  see  why  I 
could  not  be  quite  as  good  as  a  Protestant,  as  I  could, 
as  a  Catholic.  Besides,  being  good  was  not  precisely 
what  I  cared  about  so  much  at  first.  I  wanted  to  do 
something  great.  I  know  it  was  very  wrong,"  said 
Constance,  blushing  beautifully. 

''Do  you,  dearest?  l^ot  caring  to  be  good  would 
be  indefensible,  to  be  sure ;  but  how  can  you  know, 
tliat  it  was  wrong  in  you  to  wish  to  do  something 
great?" 

"Why — because, — I  supposed  it  must  be; — be- 
cause the  bishop  told  me  so  afterwards,  when  I  con- 
fessed to  him  that  I  was  not  contented  with  doing 
some  dull  work,  which  the  Sisters  had  given  me.  You 
must  ask  him  why  it  was  so,  if  you  do  not  see." 

"  I  do  not,  I  must  own.     It  seems  to  me  a  doctrine 


THE   lady's   shrift.  395 

whose  tendency  is,  forever  to  tie  down  great  powers  to 
small  performances.  Do  not  you  remember  the  parable 
of  the  talents?  From  those  to  whom  much  is  given, 
much  will  be  required.  This  desire  to  do  something 
great,  like  all  other  desires  implanted  in  us  by  our 
Maker,  requires  to  be  hallowed,  and  kept  within  its 
due  bounds.  It  must  not  be  suffered  to  degenerate 
into  a  desire  to  do  something  greater  than  our  neigh- 
bours ;  for  then  it  would  lead  us  to  grudge  and  env^y 
them  their  successes,  and  to  wish  that  their  works  might 
be  the  less,  that  ours  might  be  greater.  But  as  long 
as  we  can  restrain  our  desire  of  greatness  to  a  desire 
to  do  our  utmost  to  outdo  our  past  selves,  and  to  glo- 
rify our  Heavenly  Father  by  the  glorious  deeds  of  His 
children,  and,  above  all,  so  long  as  we  keep  it,  with  all 
our  other  tastes  and  wishes,  down  under  a  paramount 
desire  to  do  His  will,  whether  in  great  things  or  little, 
it  seems  to  me  that  it  may  tend  to  His  service,  and  to 
the  coming  of  His  kingdom  on  earth." 

"Well,  I  cannot  tell.  You  must  talk  with  the 
bishop.  I  shall  be  very  glad  if  you  do  not  find  it 
wrong ;  for  I  long  to  see  you  great, — to  have  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  see  you  as  great  as  I  do,  I  mean. 
However ;  what  I  wanted  was  happiness,  or  at  least 
forget  fulness, — the  absorption  of  all  the  powers  of  my 
vacant  mind,  that  were  preying  upon  me,  in  some 
grand  career.  Don't  you  remember  Michael  Scott's 
demon  ? — I  had  one  like  his.  I  knew  that  it  would 
tear  me  unless  I  could  find  work  for  it;  but,  if  I  could, 
I  thought  that  it  might  do  great  things.  I  believed  that  it 
was  strong ;  for  else  how  could  it  have  rent  and  con- 
vulsed me  so  ?  I  did  not  wish  to  confess,  nor  care  about 
absolution.  Remorse  was  not  my  trouble;  nor  was 
fear.     I  did  not  imagine,  that  eternity  had  in  store  for 


396  .  HERMAN. 

ine  any  torment  worse  than  the  restlessness,  ahnlessness, 
and  hopelessness,  that  gnawed  awaj  my  spirit  day  by 
day.  A  Sister  Infirm arian  told  me  once  of  a  state  of 
trance,  in  which  the  sufferer  may  lie  incapable  of  speech 
or  motion  for  hours  or  days,  and  even  permit  himself  to  be 
put  into  the  coffin  and  the  tomb,  in  breathless  life  and  con- 
scious death.  Such  a  state,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  mine, 
combined  with  a  mental  cramp  which  made  movement 
a  necessity,  and  immobility  an  added  torture.  My 
destiny  had  taken  the  form  of  a  nightmare,  and  sat 
upon  my  breast,  whispering,  '  Hush !'  when  I  would 
have  cried  out,  and  '  Be  still !'  when  I  would  have 
struggled. — Do  you  think  many  women  lead  such  lives, 
Herman  ?  Do  you  think  any  one  could  lead  a  long  life 
so  ?     Oh,  how  merciful  my  God  has  been  to  me ! — 

"  I  said  something  like  that  to  the  bishop,  one  day ; 
for,  slow  as  I  was  in  putting  myself  under  his  direc- 
tion, he  was  very  patient  with  me,  and  came  often  to 
see  me,  watching  over  me  with  a  solicitude  and  sympa- 
thy which  he  could  not  conceal,  though  he  never  forced 
them  upon  me.  He  had  often  desired  me  to  visit  some 
of  the  convents  ;  and  now  he  asked  Aunt  Cora  to  take 
me  to  see  the  Orphan  Asylum  of  St.  Barbara.  She  was 
delighted  with  the  suggestion ;  for  she  had  already 
taken  me  to  see  all  the  secular  sights  in  the  city,  and 
was  almost  in  despair  of  finding  anything  new  in  which 
she  could  hope  to  interest  me. 

"Beautiful,  majestic  Sister  Corona  came  to  meet 
us,  with  a  lovely  rosy  child  of  eighteen  months  asleep 
upon  her  shoulder,  with  its  dimpled  hands  clasped 
round  her  neck, — such  a  living  picture  of  Innocence 
reared  by  Holiness!  She  always  seemed  to  me  the 
likeness  of  some  mediaeval  saint,  come  by  miracle  out 
of  the  canvas.    She  welcomed  us  with  a  smile  that  was 


THE  lady's  shrift.  397 

like  a  henediction,  and  took  us  to  see  the  other  little 
children  at  their  play.  '  Isn't  it  enough  to  do  jour 
heart.guod,  my  dear?'  said  she,  seeing  nie  smile  at  one 
of  them. 

"  '  Heart !'  cried  I,  turning  almost  sharply  upon 
her ;  '  I  have  no  heart ;  or  it  is  ossified.' 

"  '  Oh,  no,  dear  daughter,'  said  she,  with  a  sort  of 
cheerful,  hopeful  tenderness  which  she  always  had  in 
her  voice ;  '  Don't  think  so !  It  may  have  been  be- 
numbed by  some  rude  shock ;  but  it  will  be  sure  to 
soften  and  grow  warm  again,  if  you  do  but  press  a 
little  child  to  it  often  enough.  If  you  have  none  at 
home,  come  to  me  when  it  aches ;  and  I  will  lend  you 
my  best  and  sweetest.' 

"  ^  I  was  ashamed  to  look  at  Aunt  Cora ;  for  I  had 
seldom  taken  much  notice  of  my  good-humored,  noisy 
little  cousins,  except  as  an  interruption.  When  we 
went  home,  I  called  them  all  about  me  on  this  sofa 
and  upon  my  knee,  told  them  stories,  and  felt  better. 
I  had  received  the  first  of  many  good  lessons;  and 
week  by  week,  and  soon  day  by  day,  I  went  to  the 
Sisters  for  more,  and  seldom  failed  to  find  what  I 
sought ;  while  my  heart,  and  mind,  and  imagination, 
were  all  fired  by  what  I  saw  and  heard  among  them. 
Here  at  last,  I  thought,  I  had  found  a  mode  of  life, 
offered  to  a  yoimg  and  lonely  woman,  neither  listless, 
aimless,  useless,  solitary,  nor  unguided.  Among  the 
sisterhood,  I  found  ardor  and  enthusiasm ;  nor  yet  en- 
thusiasm only,  but  organization,  power,  obedience, 
action,  and  beneficent  daring.  Their  order  connected 
them  with  far  countries  and  past  times.  Their  indi- 
vidual histories  were  sometimes  full  of  romantic  interest 
and  adventure.  They  never  knew,  when  they  rose  in 
the  morning,  where  they  were  to  sleep  at  night,  nor, 


398  HERMAN. 

when  they  lay  down  at  night,  where  the  sun  was  next 
to  rise  upon  them.  They  went  where  they  were  sent, 
at  a  moment's  notice,  without  a  word,  sigh,  or  tear, 
rejoicing  if  they  were  found  worthy  to  suffer  in  their 
Master's  cause, — even  into  plague-stricken  cities,  where 
to  go  was  death,  and  there  most  joyfully,  because 
through  them  lay  the  shortest  roads  into  his  presence. 
They  rushed  upon  the  field  of  battle,  into  the  thunder 
and  lightning  of  cannon,  and  hail-storm  of  shot,  with 
hearts  as  strong  and  more  fearless  than  those  of  their 
brethren,  who  went  there  to  wound  and  to  slay;  for  to 
them,  to  die  was  but  gain.  Here  at  last  was  a  career 
open  to  me  which  not  only  men,  but  angels,  might  well 
watch  and  call  glorious  !  I  longed  to  share  it." 
"  And  well  you  might,  my  storm-queen !" 
"But  in  order  to  do  so,  Herman,  you  perceive  that 
it  was  necessary  for  me  to  become  a  Catholic,  if  I 
could.  One  might  say,  indeed,  that  I  could  have 
learned  to  lead  as  useful,  religious,  and  active  a  life,  as 
a  Protestant ;  and  theoretically,  I  suppose  I  might ; 
but  practically,  I  don't  think  I  should.  I  had  yet  to 
learn  the  very  alphabet  of  self-sacrifice,  obedience,  and 
humility.  I  had  no  habits  of  regular  industry.  I  was 
indolent  and  inexperienced,  and  absolutely  needed, 
before  I  attempted  to  work  by  myself,  to  serve  an  ap- 
prenticeship to  some  person  or  persons,  who  had  a 
right  to  set  me  to  work  every  day,  show  me  how  to 
work,  and  see  that  I  did  my  work.  Left  to  myself,  I 
should  but  have  exerted  myself  for  the  poor  or  sick,  in 
a  very  ignorant  and  inefficient  manner,  for  a  day  or  an 
hour  now  and  then,  and  then  idled  a  week  or  a  month. 
I  should  not  have  wished  to  enlist  myself  in  the  imme- 
diate service  of  any  clergyman  ;  and  clergywomen  I  did 
not  know  where  to  find,  out  of  the  church  of  Rome. 


THE  lady's  sheift,  399 

It  is  all  very  well  for  Miss  Dix,  to  go  about  the  world 
alone  doing  good,  at  her  age ;  but,  at  mine,  I  could  not ; 
and,  long  before  I  was  as  old  as  she,  I  knew  that  my 
bodily  and  mental  powers  would  have  rusted  out  in 
idleness  and  repining.  I  don't  by  any  means  say  that 
they  ought,  you  understand,  but  that  they  would.  I 
know  it  is  the  theory,  that  if  a  nice  young  lady  sits 
down  through  all  her  youth  in  a  nice  parlour,  nicely 
dressed,  and  attends  to  her  domestic  duties,  (*  whether 
she  has  any,  or  enough  to  occupy  her,  or  not';  as  Sister 
Mary  used  to  say, — '  that  does  not  make  the  slightest 
difference ;') — by  and  by  some  other  duties  will  come  to 
her;  but,  Herman,  don't  you  think  there  is  a  little  cant 
about  that?  Do  you  think,  that  young  women  are 
quite  the  exceptions  in  human  nature,  that  they  are 
taught  to  consider  themselves?  Do  you  not  think  that 
they,  like  other  persons,  need  to  make  some  prepara- 
tion in  their  youth  for  what  they  are  to  do,  and  to  do 
well,  in  their  middle  age  and  old  age  ?  Am  I  alto- 
gether strong-rainded  and  wrong  in  thinking  so?" 
pleaded  she,  timidly,  looking  into  his  face. 

"  If  you  are,  I  am  altogether  wrong  with  you.  If 
all  single  women  bethought  themselves  betimes  of 
doing  this,  I  believe  that  we  might  see  fewer  she- 
maniacs  in  the  Insane  Asylums,  and  fewer  she-topers, 
discontented  wives,  coquettes^  and  gossips,  out  of  them. 
But  the  choice  of  such  resources,  sanctioned  at  present 
by  custom  and  fashion,  is  dismally  small,  I  grant  the 
bishop,  for  that  epitome  of  variety,  womankind.  I 
scarcely  know  how  a  woman  of  character  and  ability 
can  do  her  sex  a  greater  service,  than  by  striking  out 
quietly  and  modestly  some  new  line  of  business  suited 
to  them,  and  taking  the  lead  in  it.  Florence  Nightin- 
gale has  done  this  ;  and  only  see  what  2^  furor  she  has 


4:00  HERMAN. 

excited.  Because  her  experiment  succeeded,  it  is 
lauded  to  the  skies.  But  I  suppose  there  are  many 
able  women  as  little  able  to  be  nurses,  as  to  be  artists 
or  idlers.  Other  such  experiments  will  have  to  be 
tried,  before  the  proper  field  of  Womanhood  can  be 
explored  and  defined.  Some  such  experiments  must 
fail ;  but,  provided  thej  are  tried  conscientiously  and 
judiciously,  their  triers  will  deserve  pity  and  sympa- 
thy, rather  than  the  ridicule  and  condemnation  which 
they  will  receive." 

"  Herman,  I  wish  I  knew  what  advice  you,  a  pro- 
testant,  could  have  found  to  give  me,  if  you  had  come 
to  my  aid  instead  of  the  bishop  ?" 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?  It  would  not  have  been  re- 
markably disinterested." 

"  Oh,  fie  !  Seriously,  now ;  what  advice  would  you 
have  given  to  any  other  spoiled,  idle,  discontented 
ennuyee  in  my  place  ?" 

"  Do  not  ask.  You  would  think  my  prescription  a 
very  harsh  one,  I  fear.  Remember,  my  craft  teaches 
me  to  be  unsparing  in  recommending  and  urging  un- 
pleasant remedies." 

"  I  am  not  afraid.  I  think  you  co^dd  be  firm ;  I 
know  you  could  not  be  unfeeling.     Tell  me." 

"  At  least,  I  should  not  have  been  so  unfeeling  as  to 
insult  your  sense  or  your  sufifering  by  telling  you,  that 
your  case  was  not  a  hard  one.  I  should  not  have  done 
so,  in  the  first  place,  because  it  would  have  been  a 
falsehood  ;  in  the  second  place,  because  it  would  have 
been  a  folly.  You  needed  to  see,  that  your  situation 
was,  in  some  respects  a  peculiarly  disadvantageous, 
unfortunate,  and  dangerous  one,  that  you  might  also 
Bee  that  it  was  necessary  for  you  to  make  peculinr 
efforts,  in  order  to  extricate  yourself  from  it.     It  was  a 


THE    lady's    SHEIFT.  401 

misfortune  to  yon,  that  in  your  own  sect  there  were  no 
'  clergjwomen '  to  guide  and  encourage  you.  Tlie 
time  will  come,  I  hope,  when  there  will  be, — I  d(»  not 
say  female  preachers,  though  I  think,  that  not  St. 
Paul  himself  could  have  found  it  in  his  heart  to  shake 
his  head  at  Sarah  Martin; — but  I  do  hope  the  time 
will  come  when  all  the  branches  of  Christ's  church  will 
include,  like  that  of  Cenchrea  in  old  times,  accredited 
female  ministers  of  mercy  and  holiness,  capable  of 
training  up  younger  women  to  follow  in  their  steps. 
However,  you  had  to  do,  not  with  what  might  have 
been,  but  with  what  was. 

"I  take  then  the  Bishop's  premises:  given,  a 
woman,  young,  intellectual  but  without  any  par- 
ticular scientific  or  artistic  bent,  ardent,  enthusiastic, 
melancholy  by  nature  or  circumstances,  desirous  of 
playing  a  fine  role  in  the  world,  and  surfeited  with 
leisure.  I  begin  with  saying.  Satiety  can  best  be  cured 
by  abstinence  ;  the  first  step  is  to  get  rid  of  your 
leisure, — your  worst  enemy,  as  you  yourself  acknow- 
ledge.— '  Precisely,'  she  would  say,  '  but  how  V  I 
answer,  By  hard  labor.  (There  is  no  royal  road  to 
greatness,  believe  me,  dear  Constance,  even  for  women. 
I  am  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  undervalue  them, 
I  am  sure,  with  such  a  lady-love  and  such  a  sister  as 
fall  to  the  lot  of  few  men  ;  but  the  nobler  the  nature 
of  any  creature  is,  the  more  does  it  deserve  a  noble 
culture,  and  to  be  nobly  trained  to  noble  uses.  And, 
of  all  the  tricks  that  my  sex  plays  yours,  there  are  few 
paltrier  than  that  of  wheedling  and  flattering  persons 
capable  of  higher  and  better  things,  into  contented 
insignificance.  We  hold  up  glory  to  young  men  as 
their  highest  earthly  aim ;  obscurity  to  young  women  ; 
and  then,  finding  women  in  attainments,  energy,  and 
ability,  generally  inferior  to  men,  we  coolly  attribute 


402  HERMAN. 

the  inferiority  of  the  former  in  these  respects  solely  to 
an  original  difference  in  nature.)  If  yon  would  do 
anything  great,  you  must  work  your  way  up  to  it,  and 
be  content  to  pave  your  way  to  great  ends  with 
small  beginnings.  '  But,'  she  would  say,  '  at  what 
shall  I  work  ?  Am  I  to  sit  down  with  my  head  upon 
my  hand,  and  wait  for  my  work  to  come  to  me  V  By 
no  means,  I  replj^ ;  Stand  up, — the  quicker  the  better ! — 
prepare  yourself  for  it,  and  look  for  it.  But  all  true 
greatness  must  have  the  Greatest  of  Beings  for  its 
starting-point  and  goal.  In  a  figurative  sense,  it  should, 
like  the  Son  of  God,  come  from  God  and  go  to  God. 
Look  to  God  first,  then ;  ask  of  Him  guidance  and 
steadfastness,  for  you  will  have  need  of  it ;  and  then 
see  whether  He  has  not  already  given  you  something 
to  do, — laid  it  close  to  your  hand, — I  suppose  myself 
to  be  speaking  to  a  stranger,  you  remember, — which 
you  have  not  seen,  merely  because  you  have  not  looked 
for  it.  We  cannot  expect  God's  blessing  upon  any 
work  which  we  prefer  to  His ;  the  greatest  glory  of  his 
children  is  in  glorifying  Him ;  and  we  cannot  glorify 
Him  in  disobeying  Him.  Whatever  task  he  has  set 
you,  do  that,  whatever  you  leave  undone."^"  A  woman, 
for  instance,  who  has  no  very  near  relations,  may  still 
have  some  relations  who  need  her  good  offices.  At 
any  rate,  you  owe  service  to  Christ  through  his  poor. 
If  you  yet  want  an  introduction  to  them,  ask  any  sensi- 
ble and  benevolent  clergyman  or  physician  of  your 
acquaintance,  to  give  you  a  list  of  proper  objects  of 
your  charity,  with  some  suggestions  as  to  their  needs. 
A  person  who  has  time,  but  little  money,  may  very 
properly  turn  some  of  her  time  into  money,  as  the 
apostle  suggested,  '  working  with  h&r  hands  the  thing 


*  The  Reverend  EphrairaPeabocly, 


THE  lady's  sheii-t.  403 

that  is  good,  that  she  may  have  to  give  to  him  that 
needeth.'  If  you  can  hear  of  any  discreet  and  conscien- 
tious elderly  woman  who  is  engaged,  heart  and  hand, 
in  any  laborious  work  of  mercy,  you  may  strengthen 
her  hands,  and  train  your  own,  by  working  under  and 
with  her;  and  whether  you  are  cutting  out  a  poor 
child's  frock,  or  writing  a  report  for  a  Female  Humane 
Society,  or  whatever  you  do,  throw  yourself  into  it, 
and  do  it  in  the  best  and  busiest  manner.  The  thing 
may  be  a  trifle  ;  the  habit  of  mind,  in  a  case  like  yours, 
will  be  evervthino*.  Settle  with  yourself  how  manv 
and  what  hours,  daily  and  weekly,  you  ought  to  give 
to  these  things.  Having  done  so,  you  may,  if  need 
require,  exceed  your  limit ;  but  do  not,  unless  need 
require,  fall  below  it.  As  soon  as  you  are  known 
as  a  charitable  worker,  charitable  work  will  pour  in 
upon  you. 

"  Then,  you  may  think  it  a  paradox,  but  I  think 
that  the  undeniable  disadvantage  under  which  young 
women  lie,  in  not  being  able  to  enter  upon  the 
labors  of  mature  life  from  the  threshold  of  mature 
life,  is  partly  counterbalanced  by  another  of  their 
disadvantages,  namely,  that  they  commonly  reach 
that  threshold  unprepared  to  enter  upon  the  labors 
of  mature  life.  They  may  have  the  foundation  of 
a  good  education  and  its  garniture, — a  little  elementa- 
ry knowledge  and  a  few  so-called  accomjplishments  ; — 
but  a  generous,  liberal  education,  such  as  brings  out  the 
full,  harmonious,  vigorous  developement  of  the  facul- 
ties, they  have  usually  not  received,  and  may  well 
spend  a  few  years  more  in  bestowing  upon  themselves. 
I  say,  therefore,  next,  set  apart  some  hours  of  every 
morning  for  strengthening  and  tempering  your  mind 
by  study." 


4:04  HERMAN. 

"  By  what  studies,  Herman  ?" 

'•Now,  I  am  going  to  be  cruel;  you  know  I  told 
you  I  should. — By  just  the  same  studies,  which  have 
strengthened  and  trained  other  strong  and  able  minds; 
chiefly  Latin,  or  Greek,  (which  is  far  more  interesting, 
and  no  harder,  though  the  little  topsy-turvy  letters 
make  it  look  so,)  mathematics,  and  history.  Get  your 
friends, — I  should  say  to  our  imaginary  young  friend, — 
to  find  some  suitable  and  able  teacher  to  give  you  a 
start  at  first ;  find  two  or  three  other  agreeable  girls, 
if  you  can,  sufficiently  industrious  and  intelligent  not 
to  keep  you  back  to  wait  for  them,  for  fellow-students ; 
(for  you  must  faithfully  follow  both  of  old  Burton's 
invaluable  prescriptions  for  the  cure  of  your  melan- 
choly, '  Be  not  solitary,'  as  well  as  '  Be  not  idle ;')  and 
go  to  work  like  a  school-boy.  Do  not  do  too  much  ; 
for  you  must  remember,  that  you  have  only  that  deli- 
cate tool,  a  wornan's  mind,  to  work  with,  and  that  it  is 
easily  warped  or  broken ;  but  do  not  do  too  little.  Fix 
upon  your  hours,  both  for  recitation  and  preparation  ; 
and  let  nothing  but  some  positive  duty  interfere  with 
your  punctuality  to  them.  Let  your  daily  question  be, 
not  whether  the  mood  for  either  study  has  come  ;  but 
whether  the  time  for  it  has  come.  The  clock  must  be 
your  master  for  some  months  at  least,  until  you  have 
learned  self-mastery  and  regularity  ;  after  that,  you 
may  safely  and  advantageously  exchange  your  rigid 
obedience  to  times  and  seasons,  for  a  more  pliant  fidelity 
to  a  general  plan  of  life." 

"  But,  and  but,  and  but ! — Rigorous  Mentor,  you 
have  hardly  left  me  breath  enough  to  protest  against 
your  rigor! — But  would  it  not  be  horribly  hard 
work?" 

"  Horribly ! — so  hard,  that  while  you  gave  your  whole 


405 

mind  to  it,  as  you  ought  and  must,  you  would  have 
not  one  single  spare  thought  to  inform  you  whether 
you  were  unhappy  or  not,  whether  you  were  lonely  cr 
not,  or  whether  you  were  yourself  or  somebody  else." 

"  But  would  it  not  be  horribly  dry  ?" 

"  Horribly  ! — so  dry,  that  you  would  no  longer  find 
your  leisure,  when  it  came,  a  bore,  but  a  luxury  ;  but 
it  must  not  come  yet.  After  your  lessons,  you  must 
have  some  good,  earnest,  hearty  exercise,  according  to 
your  strength ;  riding,  skating,  bowling,  or  rowing,  for 
instance,  if  you  could  obtain  suitable  companions, 
would  be  much  more  likely  to  improve  your  spirits 
and  health  than  mere  constitutionals.  After  that,  I 
must  let  you  rest.  I  think  I  see  you  reclining  very 
prettily  in  the  easy-chair,  which  you  have  earned  a 
right  to,  with  a  fine  bloom,  and  two  bright  eyes 
(unless  they  share  in  your  general  weariness ;  if  they  do, 
you  must  only  play  on  the  piano  or  listen  to  some  one 
else,  knit,  or  chat,)  fixed  upon  a  piece  of  needle-work, 
or  an  interesting  biography  of  some  Christian  hero  or 
heroine,  who  served  God  mightily,  in  spite  of  mighty 
difiiculties,  or  some  work  of  elevating  and  inspiriting 
fiction; — I  will  not  deny  you  even  that.  You  will 
enjoy  it;  but  you  will  not  enjoy  it  long.  You  are 
conscious  of  feeling  a  little  drowsy ;  and  then  some- 
body says,  '  Constance,  my  love,'  or  '.Katy,'  or  '  Miss,' 
'  sha'n't  you  burn  your  hair  V  With  surprise,  you  find 
that  your  eyes  are  shut.  You  unclose  them  just  long 
enough  to  say  your  prayers  and  make  your  prepara- 
tions for  the  night,  and  drop  asleep  again  the  moment 
your  cheek  touches  your  pillow.  Healthily  refreshed 
after  healthy  fatigue,  you  rise  early  the  next  morning, 
to  find  your  learned  labors  probably  less  dry  ;  and  after 
a  while,  it  may  be,  you  will  cease  to  find  them  dry  at 


406  HERMAN. 

all.  They  will  become  transfigured  before  you.  In 
your  classical  studies  you  will  see  yourself  going  to  the 
same  school,  as  it  were,  and*  sitting  on  the  same 
benches,  with  the  greatest  philosophers  and  statesmen 
of  ancient  and  modern  times;  and  the  mathematics 
will  unroll  for  your  inspection  the  architectural  plans 
of  the  Creator, — the  laws  which  are  the  skeleton  of  the 
universe. — At  any  rate,  you  have  got  rid  of  your 
leisure.  You  have  plenty  of  work,  w^holesome  if 
not  attractive,  in  social  duty,  study,  and  exercise,  each 
kind  capable  of  indefinite  extension,  according  to  your 
need.  Under  the  first  head,  leave  yourself  time  enough 
for  the  generous  consideration  and  promotion  of  the 
happiness  of  those  immediately  about  you,  that  self- 
discipline  may  not  degenerate  into  mere  self-reference, 
and  that  your  heart  may  not  share  in  the  hardening 
process  which  is  going  on  in  your  intellect ;  for  the 
sympathies,  even  of  those  naturally  the  most  fastidious 
and  exclusive,  are  capable  of  indefinite  expansion  ;  and 
on  the  other  hand  I  have  felt, — noticed,  I  mean, — that 
the  tendency  of  a  wounded  soul  is  sometimes  to  close 
over  again  with  a  rough  and  callous  scar.  Having 
laid  out  your  plan,  to  the  best  of  your  judgment,  giving 
its  due  place  to  each  of  these  things,  try  it  for  three 
months  at  least,  without  once  asking  yourself  whether 
it  is  doing  you  good  or  not,  and,  if  possible,  without 
making  a  single  alteration  m  it." 

"But,  my  dear  Herman,  would  it  not  be  very  diflS- 
cult  to  persevere  in  so  severe  a  system  of  self-culture, 
without  any  stimulus  or  object?" 

"  Yery  difiicult,  my  dearest  love ;  under  the  present 
regime^  a  woman  needs  to  have  twice  the  energy  and 
capacity  of  an  ordinary  man,  in  order  to  attain  as 
generous  an  education  even  as  many  an  ordinary  man ; 


THE  lady's  shrift.  407 

but  no  one  can  lead  a  great  life  without  great  efforts. 
The  impetus,  which  it  is  the  privilege  of  us  young  men 
to  receive  at  the  outset  of  our  career,  from  our  elders, 
valuable  as  it  is,  is  apt  to  spend  itself  soon  and  die 
out,  unless  we  can  keep  it  up,  in  great  measure  by 
ourselves.  Besides,  though  you  may  have  no  human 
stimulus,  you  ought  to  encourage  and  enliven  yourself 
continually  with  the  hope  of  your  heavenly  Father's 
approbation,  and  the  hope  also,  that  if  you  are  faithful 
over  a  few  things.  He  will  make  you  ruler  over  many 
things.  Do  not  parents  always  take  pleasure  in  seeing 
their  children  do  well  ?  Do  not  dutiful  children  love 
to  give  them  that  pleasure  ?  Moreover,  we  suppose  my 
arduous  experiment  to  be  tried  by  a  girl  capable  of 
greatness, — a  girl  of  a  great  soul.  We  will  suppose, 
then,  that  she  has  tried  it,  and  tried  it  with  little 
change  of  outward  circumstance  even  for  nine  or  ten 
years.  She  has  spent  nine  or  ten  years,  then,  in  the 
diligent  and  judicious  exercise  of  all  her  powers, — in 
the  faithful  and  loving  discharge  of  all  her  duties  to 
God  and  her  neighbour.  The  ardent,  but  inexpe- 
rienced, undeveloped,  and  unoccupied  girl  of  twenty, 
is  now  a  woman  of  thirty.  She  has  the  habit  of  study, 
the  habit  of  attention,  the  habit  of  reflection,  the  habit 
of  action.  Her  mind  is  well  furnished,  scholarly, 
clear,  and  quick;  and  her  health,  probably  good. 
Throw  such  a  person  anywhere,  and  she  will  come 
down  on  her  feet. 

"  Having  been  forced,  under  God,  to  lay  out  her 
path  in  life  for  herself,  and  having  done  so  thought- 
fully and  considerately,  her  every  step  has  been  an 
exercise  of  judgment.  A  good  and  experienced  judg- 
ment is  now",  therefore,  added  to  her  original  ard(jr 
and  enthusiasm;  and  g  od  judgment,  ardor,  and  enthu- 


4:08  HERMAN. 

si  asm,  make  up  almost  the  perfection  of  a  working 
character.  She  is  the  person  of  whom  all  who  know 
her  say  the  first,  when  any  good  work  is  to  be  done, 
'  She  would  be  the  very  person  to  do  it,  if  she  has  not 
too  much  upon  her  hands  already.'  She  will  be, — she 
is, — she  has  been, — great,  in  self-mastery,  capacity, 
industry,  and  fidelity  to  God.  "Whether  men  and 
women  do  or  will  call  her  so,  she  has  ceased  to  care,  if 
she  ever  cared.  Having  toiled  so  long,  with  the  object 
of  making  herself  not  an  admired  scholar  or  mathema- 
tician, but  an  accomplished  and  able  handmaid  of  the 
Lord,  she  has  learned  to  love  less  the  praise  of  men 
than  the  praise  of  God.  She  has  ceased  to  estimate 
greatness  by  any  human  standard ;  and  perhaps  she 
finds  the  works,  w^hich  have  already  accumulated  upon 
her,  extensive  enough,  even  for  her  enlarged  and 
practised  powers ;  but,  if  she  believes  that  she  could 
secure  greater  usefulness  in  a  wider  sphere,  her  en- 
gaging kindness  and  proved  prudence  have  probably 
earned  for  her  the  confidence  and  cooperation  of  many 
friends  ;  and  her  riper  age  itself  has  now  become  a  sort 
of  chaperone  for  her.  She  will  then,  perhaps,  become 
a  mother  to  some  orphan  children,  like  Miss  Bremer's 
Evelina, — or  devote  herself  to  the  wounded,  like  Miss 
Nightingale,— to  the  sick,  like  Miss  ^^^^^^,  M.  D.— to 
the  insane,  like  Miss  Dix, — or  to  the  wicked,  like  Mrs. 
Yvy^ — or  strike  out,  like  them,  some  new  path  for  her- 
self, suited  to  her  individual  self  Perhaps  she  will 
become  such  a  mistress,  as  she  herself  could  not  find  on 
her  entrance  into  life,  to  other  unoccupied  and  unsatis- 
fied girls.  What  she  will  do,  I  cannot  tell ;  nor  will 
she  ask  me.  By  this  time  she  knows  herself;  and,  in 
whatever  course  she  takes,  she  probably  has  at  least 
thirty  years  of  vigorous   activity  before  her,  all  the 


THE  lady'3  shrift.  409 

more  efficient  for  the  ten  waiting  and  working  years 
of  preparation  which  have  preceded. 

"  Looking  back  over  a  past  crowded  with  honorable 
achievement  and  deeds  of  love  and  wisdom,  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  in  a  year  at  the  very  lowest  com- 
putation, she  is  hardly  very  wretched.  I  do  not  say 
that  she  is  leading  so  happy  a  life  as  I  wish  her,  or  so 
happy  a  life  as  I  hope  such  women  will  be  able  to  lead 
a  century  or  two  hence,  when  there  are  more  of  them  to 
keep  each  other  in  countenance,  and  society  has  become 
accustomed  to  them,  and  found  out  how  many  things 
they  are  good  for ;  but  is  it  not  a  beautiful  and  blessed 
life,  compared  with  that  which  she  was  leading  and 
likely  to  lead  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed !" 

"  Whether  following  out  my  suggestions  would  lead 
to  such  a  life,  I  can  only  conjecture.  They  are  the 
suggestions  of  only  a  young  and  inexperienced  man. 
But  I  should  like  to  have  the  experiment  tried." 

"  By  me,  Herman  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dearest  love, — if  you  find  yourself  '  idle, 
discontented,  and  ennuyee.^ — Seriously,  no.  Physi- 
cians don't  try  experiments  on  the  members  of  their 
own  families, — unless  they  are  tired  of  them." 

"  You  have  not  tried  it  upon  Clara,  then  ?" 

Herman  laughed  heartily.  "  I  wish  you  would 
ask  Edward  that  question,  when  I  am  by  to  see.  He 
always  regarded  her  as  his  peculiar  property,  don't 
you  recollect  ?  Besides,  I  do  not  think  Clara,  in  any 
respect,  a  fit  subject.  She  was  never  ennuyee  in  her 
life.  It  never  in  her  life,  I  imagine,  occurred  to  her 
that  she  could  do  anything  great ;  she  is  contented 
with  being  beautiful  and  good.  Perhaps  she  could  do 
more  good  if  she  were  more  enterprising;  but  no,  I 
IS 


410  HERMAN. 

will  not  say,  or  even  think,  anything  so  ungracious  and 
ungrateful.  I  doubt,  whether  she  has  in  her  the  mate- 
rial for  a  Miss  Dix  or  Mrs.  Fry.  She  is  never  idle 
now ;  and  I  do  not  believe,  that  hard  labor  of  any  kind 
was  what  God  planned  for  her ;  she  has  none  of  the 
restless  eagerness,  which  commonly  accompanies  a 
» great  capacity  for  it.  Domestic  life  is  her  paradise ; 
and  she  is  an  angel  in  it.  She  does  her  good  and 
appropriate  service  in  this  feverish,  dark,  unquiet 
world,  while  she  shines  through  and  over  it  with  her 
aspect  of  sweet,  calm,  heavenly  peace.  Different  people 
are  made,  and  wanted  here,  for  different  uses.  Provi- 
dence assorts  us  all.  I  like  you  each  best  as  you  are. 
There  is  room  for,  and  need  of,  both  the  Clara  and 
the  Constance.  More's  the  pity,  that  there  is  only  one 
of  each." 

"  Well;  as  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  the  Sisters'  lives 
made  a  convert  of  my  heart ;  and  then  I  said  to  the 
bishop,  '  Make  me  like  them,  and  I  can  ask  no  better.' 
He  taught  me, — he  tried  to  teach  me, — to  be  gentle  to- 
wards others,  severe  towards  myself,  to  look  upon  my 
character  not  as  that  of  some  mere  irresponsible  heroine 
of  fiction,  but  as  God  should  look  upon  it  at  the  last 
day,  to  repent  of  my  pride  instead  of  priding  myself 
upon  it,  to  seek  out,  acknowledge,  and  cure  my  faults, 
instead  of  excusing  them,  to  struggle  with  my  indo- 
lence, and  to  mortify  my  selfishness.  I  took  a  private 
vow ; — by  the  regulations  of  the  order,  years  must  pass 
before  one  can  formally  and  fully  be  admitted  to  it. — 
I  joined  the  Sisters,  and,  by  special  favor,  was  allowed 
to  assume  their  habit.  I  did  as  they  did,  and  as  they 
bade  me ;  and  among  them  I  have  toiled  a  year." 

"  A  happy  year,  my  dearest  ?" 

"  Herman,  do  not  ask  !     But  I  will  tell !     A  year 


THE    lady's    SHKIFT.  411 

of  sackcloth  and  ashes  it  has  been  to  me ;  because  I 
was  not  worthy.  I  went  to  them,  hoping  to  get  out 
of  the  world  of  which  I  was  so  weary ;  but,  because  I 
was  so  worldly,  the  world  followed  and  went  in  with 
me,  even  there.  My  life  was  far  more  monotonous, 
and  less  exciting,  than  I  had  expected  ;  partly  because 
I  had,  I  suppose,  expected  too  much,  and  partly  be- 
cause I  took  too  little  interest  in  duty  for  its  own  sake. 
All  the  pampered  tastes,  which  had  lost  their  appetite 
in  me  from  over-feeding,  regained  it  from  fasting,  and 
hungered  and  thirsted  for  poetry,  songs,  drawing,  con- 
versation, and  all  that  gives  beauty  and  grace  to  polite 
life.  Toil,  hardship,  and  contact  with  real  life,  sobered 
my  mind  and  moderated  my  demands  ;  and  I  often 
wondered,  how  I  could  ever  have  been  in  such  a  hurry 
to  leave  Aunt  Cora's.  While  the  Sisters  said,  that  I 
was  learning  efficiency,  energy,  and  skill  in  tending 
the  sick, — (they  employed  me  chiefly  in  that ;  because 
they  said  their  sicker  patients  liked  my  noiseless  move- 
ments and  quiet  ways,  but  that  I  was  too  silent  and 
grave  to  be  with  children.  Do  you  find  me  silent  and 
grave,  Herman  ?) — all  that  time,  I  was  painfully  and 
sadly  learning  deeper  and  sadder  lessons,  which  they 
knew  not  of, — lessons  that  humbled  me  to  the  dust. 
In  contrast  with  their  single-hearted,  eager  self- 
devotion,  my  own  worldliness, — my  own  selfishness — 
stared  me  in  the  face  day  by  day.  I  could  bear  the 
days,  however,  better ;  for  then  we  were  busy,  and  I 
had  less  time  to  think ;  but  when  night  came,  and  we 
sat  down  to  rest,  with  nothing  more  interesting — to 
me — ^than  the  prescribed  life  of  some  poor  saint  to 
read,  and  they  read  and  heard  it,  and  were  contented 
and  thankful,  then  most  of  all  I  saw  and  felt  that  I 
was  utterly  unlike  them, — that  I  was  a  hypocrite 
among  them,  and  had  no  right  to  be  there, — that  I  had 


4:12  HERMAN. 

snatched  the  crown,  of  which  I  was  not  worthy,  before 
it  was  held  out  to  me,  and  only  because  it  shone.  It 
scorched  me,  therefore,  and  I  could  not  bear  it, — I  did 
not  know  how  I  could  bear  it  long  and  live, — nor  yet 
how  I  could  ever  bear  to  acknowledge  my  error,  self- 
conceit,  and  presumption." 

"  You  have  learned  humility,  Constance !  I  will 
not  try  to  flatter  you  out  of  it.  I  fear,  we  are  all  more 
given  to  think  of  our  own  glory  than  the  glory  of  God. 
But  did  it  not  occur  to  you,  that  a  part  of  your  uneasi- 
ness might  come  from  the  fact,  that  He  had  ordained 
you  to  serve  Him  in  part  as  an  intellectual  woman  ; 
and  that  you  were  unnecessarily  starving  your  intel- 
lect?" 

"  To  tell  the  whole  truth,  though  I  put  it  on  no 
grounds  higher  than  those  of  my  longing,  and  suffer- 
ing, for  a  little  literary  food  more  tempting  to  me,  I  did 
complain  of  that  to  the  confessor,!  had  where  I  then 
was,  in  hopes  he  would  grant  me  a  dispensation.  I 
got  only  a  penance  from  him,  and  an  assurance  that  it 
was  a  '  timptation  of  the  inemy,  me  daughtther,' "  said 
Constance,  casting  down  her  eyes  demurely,  as  she 
lapsed  in  spite  of  her  into  a  little  sly  mimicry ;  "  but 
he  was  a  foreigner, — from — from  Ireland,  and  not  a 
highly  educated  person  himself — I  dare  say  the  bishop 
would  have  been  more  lenient." — 

"And  you  thought  it  your  duty,  Constance,"  said 
Herman,  with  a  strong  inward  emphasis  upon  the 
"  you,"  "  to  obey  such  a  person  as  that  ?" 

"  Certainly.  I  was  bound  to  do  it.  Don't  you 
know  what  is  said  in  the  ^  Combat  8piritueVl — oh,  I 
forgot ;  you  have  not  read  it  yet, — '  It  is  better  to  obey 
the  lowest  \le  dernier]  of  men  for  the  love  of  God,  than 
to  command  kings  and  princes.'  " 

Herman  shuddered  within  himself,  as  he  thought  ot 


THE  lady's  shkift.  413 

the  uses  that  might  be,  and  as  he  feared  had  been, 
made  of  such  maxims ;  but  he  said  only,  "  You  did 
not  want  poetry  to  read,  while  you  were  tending 
the  sick.  If  I  were  sick,  you  could  be  contented 
without  reading  ?" 

"  Yes, — quite  as  contented  as  I  could  with  it.  I 
wish  you  may  be  partly  right,  and  that  I  may  not 
have  been  so  wholly  wrong  ;  but"  Constance  went  on, 
'*in  short,  I  was  continually  haunted  and  harassed 
more  and  more,  in  the  midst  of  all  my  fatigues,  hard- 
ships, and  privations,  by  the  fear  that  I  had  mistaken 
my  vocation,  and  seized  on  one  too  holy  for  me, 
through  a  vain  love  of  excitement  and  eclat^  and  a 
wilful  longing  for  death ;  though  how  wrong  that  was 
I  did  not  fully  see,  until  I  saw  it  with  your  eyes.  Do 
not  you  remember  that  day  in  the  farm-house  in 
Kansas,  when  Sister  Mary  was  talking  with  you  and 
I  sat  by,  and  she  mentioned  that  the  Sisters  of  St. 
Luke  wished  to  have  a  convent  in  a  very  unhealthy 
place  in  Florida,  and  were  forbidden,  because  Bishop 
Devereux  said,  that  it  would  be  wantonly  throwing 
away  their  lives  ?  You  had  lately  been  hanging,  as 
we  thought,  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  so  calmly ; 
but  you  said  then  that  Xo  one  could  be  prepared  to 
die,  who  was  not  prepared  to  live  willingly,  so  long  as 
it  was  the  will  of  God.  Up  to  that  time,  death  had 
been  more  and  more  my  hope,  and  my  only  hope ;  for 
pride  and  shame  threatened  forever  to  bar  my  escape 
from  what  seemed  to  me  an  ever  more  and  more 
insupportable  captivity.  But  then  a  great  revulsion 
of  feeling  came  over  me.  The  truth  and  courage, 
which  breathed  out  from  you,  gave  me  strength  to  be 
brave  and  true  to  myself;  and  I  determined  to  hum.ble 
myself,  own  my  folly,  face  ridicule,  and  bow  my  spirit 
to  go   back  to  the  home  from   which  I  had  broken 


414  HERMAN. 

away,  open  still  to  me,  as  I  knew,  witli  a  hearty  wel- 
come,— make  myself  as  useful  as  I  could  to  Aunt  Cora, 
and  eke  out  my  support,  if  she  would  allow  me,  with 
my  needle  or  by  copying  or  translating,  for  a  time, — to 
devote  my  spare  hours  to  the  poor  and  sick  in  Balti- 
more, no  longer  as  I  hoped  inefficiently  after  the  skil- 
ful training  I  had  had, — to  read,  rest,  and  think,  and 
endeavour,  by  time,  penance,  and  prayer,  to  wean 
myself  gradually  from  the  world,  and  fit  myself  for  the 
calling  I  had  so  rashly  taken  upon  myself  to  follow, — 
and  then  or  never  to  return  to  it.  For,  Herman,  you 
must  not  think, — indeed  you  must  not !" — exclaimed 
Constance,  with  a  gush  of  proud  blood  into  her  cheeks, 
"  that  I  had  the  least  idea  of  putting  myself  in  your 
way,  or  throw^ing  myself  upon  your  compassion. 
Sister  Mary  had  told  me,  that  she  understood  you  were 
soon  to  be  married ;  else  I  might  not  have  had  moral 
courage  enough  to  face  some  misconstructions,  to  which 
my  return  would  have  exposed  me." 

"  What  did  the  woman  mean  ? — How  dared  she !" — 
cried  onr  excitable  young  friend,  starting  to  his  feet 
and  looking  puritanically  ready  to  annihilate  the  Scar- 
let Woman,  with  all  her  dependants  but  one. 

"  '  What  did  she  mean  V  "  repeated  Constance,  laugh- 
ing, as  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and 

"Smoothed  the  raven  down  of  broadcloth,  till  he  smiled;" 

"  To  make  me  as  cold  and  stiff  and  unkind  to  you  as 
possible,  and  keep  me  from  giving  you  a  single  chance 
to  speak  to  me  or  correspond  with  me ;  as  if  we  had 
not  been  honorable  people,  and  upon  honor  ;  but  to 
set  it  all  right  with  me  afterwards,  as  she  did  yester- 
day, at  the  last  moment,  just  before  she  set  me  down 
safely  here ;  though  then  it  came  very  near  being  all 
wrong  for   you;  for,  until  she  repeated   to  me  seine 


THE   lady's  shrift.  415 

piteous,  despairing,  nonsense  that  jou  once  talked  to 
her,  sir,  I  had  a  great  mind  to  run  off  again,  and  hide, 
no  matter  where;  and,  after  all,  I  did  not  know 
whether  To  believe  her  or  not. — '  How  did  she  dare  V 
She  did  not  know  how  your  eves  could  flash,  I  sup- 
pose ;  nor  did  I  till  this  moment.  She  does  equivo- 
cate a  little  now  and  then  ; — it  is  her  only  fault, — but 
always  she  says,  '  with  a  good  intention ;'—  and  she 
keeps  a  little  paper  book,  in  which  she  sets  every 
instance  down,  so  as  to  be  sure  not  to  forget  one  at 
confession.  I  fear  she  would  not  find  that  the  'sooth- 
ing sacrament'  that  she  calls  it,  if  you  were  her 
director;  and  you  are  right.  Of  all  things,  I  detest 
and  despise  falsehood !" 

"And  of  all  things,  I  love  truth,"  said  Herman, 
pressing  her  hand, — "truth  and  Constan-ce,  one  and 
inseparable  !" — And  so  they  were.  Herman  ought 
not  to  have  made  puns,  especially  bad  ones ;  but  this 
one  was  founded  on  fact,  and  on  a  good  fact. 

But  what  had  become  of  his  supernal  and  unap- 
proachable heroine, — his  sovereign  queen, — his  seventh 
heavenly  saint  ?  She  was  gone ;  and  he  did  not  miss 
her.  His  tragic  muse  had  put  her  buskins  off,  because 
the  place  whereon  she  stood  was  holy  ground;  but 
she  stood  for  that  only  the  nearer  to  his  heart.  It  is 
not  every  child,  who  chooses  his  book  for  the  sake  of 
its  pretty  covers,  that  is  so  well  pleased  when  he 
comes  to  read  it,  or  with  so  good  reason.  Hemian 
had  found  in  his, — the  fair  pages  of  his  Constance's 
heart, — not  quite  what  he  had  expected,  it  was  true, 
but  in  nursery  parlance  a  "  pleasant  surprise," — a  sur- 
prise so  pleasant,  that  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  go 
back  to  ask  what  his  expectation  had  been,  or  to  com- 
pare it  with  the  reality.  He  had  been  but  a  boy 
when  he  fell  in  love,  and  a  somewhat  unformed,  dreauiy 


416  HEUMAN. 

boy,  who  sought  to  find  without  him  the  stimulus, 
guidance,  and  steadfastness,  which  he  had  not  yet  proved 
within.  He  was  a  man  now,  and  a  strong  |ind  reso- 
lute man,  though  tender-hearted  still,  and  found  it  as 
sweet  to  lead  his  lady-love,  as  she  did  to  be  led  by 
him.  He  had  changed  so  much,  that  if  she  had  not 
been  much  changed,  too,  she  might  not, — she  could 
not, — have  suited  him  so  well.  If  not  altogether  a 
guide  for  him,  she  was  eager  to  be  guided,  and  would, 
he  foresaw,  soon  permit  him  to  be  her  guide  in  all 
respects  where  she  needed  one.  He  hoped  so,  at  least ; 
and  if  he  was  not  quite  sure,  his  doubt  was  as  a  little 
grain  of  pepper,  which  gave  piquancy  to  his  hope. 
If  capable  of  being  deceived,  it  was  through  thought- 
lessness and  artlessness,  not  dulness ;  and  she  herself 
was  incapable  of  deceit.  If  not  faultless,  she  was 
most  candid  and  open  in  owning  her  faults,  most  nobl}^ 
eager  to  repair  them,  and  most  winning  in  seeking 
forgiveness.  Happy  is  the  man  or  woman,  who  can 
pour  out  all  his  or  her  failings  and  feelings  before  the 
soul  that  loves  him  or  her  the  best,  and  be  only  the 
dearer  for  the  revelation  ! 

It  is  not  to  be  imagined,  however,  that  Herman 
analyzed  and  anatomized  Constance  after  this  cool 
fashion  himself,  for  our  satisfaction  ;  far  from  it.  It 
is  only  I,  who  do  it  for  the  satisfaction  of  my  less 
enthusiastic  readers.  Without  deigning  to  pry  into 
the  premises,  he  jumped  at  once  to  the  conclusion,  that 
she  was  precisely  what  he  wanted  to  make  him  the 
happiest  of  men ;  and  as  this  was  precisely  the  same 
conclusion  to  which  he  had  jumped  about  four  years 
before,  any  little  alteration  in  the  premises  over  which 
he  jumped  was  quite  disregarded. 


NOTE    TO    VOLUME    I. 

Note  A. — It  is  scarcely  necessary,  I  trust,  to  remind  my  readers 
here  or  elsewhere,  that  what  I  undertake  to  lay  before  them  is  not  a 
history,  bat  a  story. 

If,  however,  they  will  judge  for  themselves  whether  or  not  the 
episode  of  Kansas,  se  non  h.  vero,  e  ben  trovato,  1  am  happy  to  refer 
them  to  the  "  Reports  of  the  Majority  and  Minority  of  the  Congres- 
sional Committee  of  Investigation  on  the  subject  of  Kansas,"  in 
which  they  may  find  testimony  both  for  and  against  me. 

18* 


